


(o) 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE RICH LEGACY 



Memories? of 

Hannah Tobey Farmer 

Wife of Moses Gerrish Farmer 



BY 

AUGUSTIN CALDWELL 



BOSTON 
PRIVATELY PRINTED 

MDCCCXCII 



Vji ) 






14- 






Copyright, 1892 
By Sarah J. Farmer 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Electrotyped and Printed by 

Geo. H. Ellis 

141 Franklin St., Boston 



<9tbitaUb 

TO 

THE KING'S DAUGHTERS 

AND ALL OTHERS 
LENDING A HAND 

"IN HIS NAME" 

"King's Daughters were among thy honorable 
women" 



As we returned to the home, — not desolate, but sanc- 
tified by this visitation of God, — thoughts and inspirations 
crowded upon us, while contemplating the influence of a 
life dominated by the spiritual. We felt the power and 
possibilities of a woman's life, with its unwisdom and 
limitations in a worldly sense, but with its broad 
aims, its faithful and persistent accomplishments; and 
we have thanked God for the rich legacy it has left 
to its own and the world. 



AMELIA C. THORP. 



West Lebanon, Maine, 
July 11, 1891. 



PREFATORY. 



The portrait of Mrs. Farmer — the frontispiece 
in this volume — gives as true an impression of 
her personality and presence as a picture can con- 
vey. The singular mobility of face, the charm and 
fascination of voice, can never be else than a mem- 
ory until we find her again in the Everlasting Home. 
This photograph, by Mrs. Emily Stokes, is from a 
crayon portrait lately made by Mrs. Eva D. Cow- 
dery, from an oil painting by Frank H. Tompkins. 
The original is a monument to Mr. Tompkins' 
patience and skill as well as to his rare intuitive 
powers ; for he had only a sketch, made after death, 
and a photograph of " twenty years ago " from 
which to develop on canvas a face so living that the 
one expression of all is, "Will it not speak?" 

The silhouette in Chapter I. is of Mrs. Far- 
mer's mother, Mrs. Olive (Tobey) Shapleigh; her 



Vlll 

father, Richard Shapleigh, is shown by a silhouette 
in Chapter II. 

In Chapter VII. is inserted a fac-simile of the 
posters used by Mr. Farmer while lecturing on 
electricity in 1847. 

Chapter XXVI. has a reproduction in helio- 
type of the music of Mr. and Mrs. Farmer's song, 
"The Patriot's Grave." 

The picture of the "Island Home," United 
States Torpedo Station, Newport, R.I., is found in 
Chapter XXXIV. 

" Bittersweet-in-the-Fields " in Eliot, Mrs. Far- 
mer's last earthly home, may be found in Chapter 
XXXIX. It is from a photograph taken by Mrs. 
Farmer's niece, Miss Marguerite Rogers. 

The fine portrait in oil of Mr. Farmer, by Frank 
H. Tompkins, is reproduced, in Chapter XLIV., 
by the Boston Photogravure Company. 

"Rosemary" and "Rosemary's Guests," a typi- 
cal group, and the one present at the burial ser- 
vice, are shown in Chapter XLI. 

Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua, sketched by the 
artist, Arthur W. Dow, is included in Chapter 
XLIII. At the close of the chapter is given a 



IX 

fac-simile of a tribute from the loved poet, John 
G. Whittier, to Miss Farmer on her birthday. 

The design of the cover is a tribute of love from 
Mrs. Farmer's gifted artist friend, A. W. Dow. 



[By the request of many lifelong friends and rela- 
tives of the family, the portrait of Rev. Augustin 
Caldwell has been inserted in Chapter XLVII. 
(since the completion of this memorial volume). 
The photogravure was made from the remarkably 
fine oil painting, which Frank H. Tompkins, the 
artist and owner, kindly loaned to the Boston Pho- 
togravure Company. — S. J. F.] 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

I. Blackberry Hill i 

II. The Father's Memorial ...... 21 

III. Fireside Legends . 3° 

IV. Pulpit and Desk 45 

V. Fatherless 50 

VI. Newness of Life 62 

VII. Heart and Home 77 

VIII. Motherhood 96 

IX. Maternal Responsibility 105 

X. "My T'other Mother" 116 

XI. Another Railroad 129 

XII. The Historic House 136 

XIII. The City of Peace, 1848 145 

XIV. Eden Home, 1848-65 159 

XV. Scattered Seed 172 

XVI. Candle-beams 184 

XVII. The Quartette 200 

XVIII. Baby Clarence 206 

XIX. "Purified, made White" 215 

XX. The Garden of Pin-flats 232 

XXL Lillie's Home, Boston 248 

XXII. May Day Fair 267 

XXIII. The Day chronicled 294 

XXIV. The Garner 307 



Xll 



PAGE 

XXV. The May Basket 321 

XXVI. The Chaplet 343 

XXVII. The Exodus 360 

XXVIII. Linden Castle, 1865-68 364 

XXIX. Pilgrim's Rest, 1868-72 386 

XXX. By Sea axd by Land 397 

XXXI. Silyer Bells. 1S44-69 406 

XXXII. Ax Opex Door 417 

XXXIII. Coxfessiox of Faith 429 

XXXIV. Islaxd Home, Newport, 1872-81 . . . 435 
XXXV. Xoble Womanhood ........ 455 

XXXVI. The Old South 460 

XXXVII. Alfred Little 478 

XXXVIII. Last Days at Newport 491 

XXXIX. Harvest Days 498 

XL. The Father's Wish 520 

XLL Rosemary, 1888 529 

XLII. The Westerixg Sun 548 

XLIII. A Sunday Memory 564 

XLIV. Last Letters 569 

XLV. The Eyerlastixg Morxixg $y6 

XLVI. In Memoriam 584 

XLVII. In the Kixg's Palace 587 

XLVI 1 1. Words of Life axd Loye . . . . . 600 

XLIX. "She yet Speaketh " 626 

L. Life, xot Death 630 




OLIVE TOBEY SHAPLEIGH. 



BLACKBERRY HILL. 



HANNAH TOBEY SHAPLEIGH, whose story 
these pages tell, was born at Blackberry 
Hill, a precinct of Berwick, Me., March 20, 1823. 
She was the third daughter of Richard and Olive 
Shapleigh, and the chosen one to bear the maternal 
grandmother's name; the chosen of God, too, to 
be loved wherever she was known, and to be longed 
for when she passed out of sight forever. Only 
five of the twelve children of the Shapleigh house- 
hold lived beyond babyhood and youth. The little 
row of graves is a sorrowful picture even to-day, 
with its white headstones; but, in contrast, the 
Father's "many mansions" are joyful places and 
full of joyful faces. We shall know more about 
them some time. 

Richard and Olive Shapleigh were born in Eliot, 
lived, loved, and were married there; but Black- 
berry Hill was the earliest and for a score of years 
their established home. 

"My precious father," wrote Mrs. Farmer in her 
later years, "was one with whom my dear mother 
took sweetest counsel. Hand in hand they jour- 
neyed till twelve children crowned the joy of their 



union. No wedded life ever brought more happi- 
ness. He was the star of mother's life; and in his 
life she walked contentedly, feeling that woman's 
place was where she could do most for God, her 
family, and the world." 

The increasing calls of public duty and service 
caused Richard Shapleigh to transfer the happy 
household to Great Falls, a home eventually en- 
deared to the family, and sacred as the dying place 
of the choicest and most loving of fathers and the 
brightest and most winsome of the children. From 
that threshold was borne Mary, the queenly daugh- 
ter, aged nineteen years, and, four weeks later, 
Elizabeth, remembered always as the family saint, 
aged sixteen years, the singularly spiritual Albert, 
and the father, too, at the vigorous age of forty-six, 
never forgotten and never unmourned. Then the 
widow and her little brood, with Hannah as the eld- 
est of her surviving children, took her final abode at 
Eliot, with something of the sense of desolation 
that Naomi had when she came wearily back to the 
land of her birth. 

The trio of sisters nearest of age, and who espe- 
cially brightened the father's life because of their 
years and companionship, were Mary, Elisabeth, 
and Hannah. As was natural, these daughters 
clung to the father, and were pets. Girls are apt 
to hover about the' father, — not that mother is 
loved less, but daughters and fathers have close 
sympathy. 

The mother of our household had abounding cares 



with her ever-increasing flock, yet she never for a 
moment lost her sense of motherliness. How beau- 
tifully the daughter Hannah wrote of her, when the 
long story was ended and she had gone to God : - 

" My dear blessed mother was a woman of supe- 
rior natural talents. Her opportunities of mental 
development were of course limited compared with 
ours ; but she so profitably improved her advantages 
that her influence for the beautiful, true, and good 
could scarcely be excelled. She was a blessing to 
all who came within the range of her life, minister- 
ing to soul and body. She went about doing good 
with the most complete self-abnegation, as unselfish 
as it is possible for any human being to be and as 
perfect as the dear Lord ever made any of his chil- 
dren without taking them at once to heaven. If 
there is one seat in bliss higher than another, I 
shall look and see if my blessed mother is there. 
How can I ever be grateful enough to God for such 
a holy, praying mother? Her children rise up and 
call her blessed, and so do all who knew her." 

Truly are these words written; for children and 
grandchildren, neighbors and friends, speak in 
kindly remembrance of her gentle demeanor, and re- 
peat her little fragments of domestic wisdom. Do 
we not hear her say, "If company comes and finds 
us unprepared, we must give a welcome and a cup 
of tea, and never apologize " ? No unexpected guest 
ever went from her hearthstone with memories of 
multiplied excuses that lasted as long as the recol-. 
lections of the visit. A quaint little habit she had 



of hanging such curtains at her windows as the 
evening lamp could illuminate. "A lighted win- 
dow is always a cheer," she would sagely say. 
Mrs. Farmer would smilingly recall her mother's 
habit at Great Falls not to draw the shades till the 
evening stage had passed. "It will look brighter 
to the passengers to see an open room and happy 
faces." Yes, the heart that has a cheer for a pass- 
ing stage-traveler will hardly fail of a beaming 
light through the open portal and the smile of the 
heavenly Face when the eternal threshold is 
reached. And the light of the motherly and now 
angel face is a radiance which illuminates uncon- 
sciously to us the road that we are traveling. She 
had also a dear love of flowers. Her garden was 
her delight. Before winter's ice had yielded to the 
spring's breath she began to watch for first indica- 
tions of life and greenness. Among the pencilings 
of Mrs. Farmer, as dear a lover of flowers as was 
her mother, is a little rhythm which brings up the 
memory as freshly as if we looked from the window 
and saw the dear lady upon the lawn in the morn- 
ing sun of a spring day : — 

MOTHER'S GOOD-MORNING. 

How oft I've seen my mother walk, 

In early spring-time hours, 
Along the paths about our home, 

To see her " blessed flowers " ! 

What watchful care she gave to them, — 
A constant pleasing zest, — 



5 

As every morn at break of day 
Her feet the pathway pressed ! 

To see them wake from winter's sleep 

And look up in her eyes, 
Each one was welcomed back by her 

With such a sweet surprise. 

" You little dears, where have you been? " 

Her precious lips would say : 
" I've felt so lonesome all the while 

That you have kept away." 

And thus she made on every one 

Her sweet good-morning call : 
Did they not feel her presence near, 

Her benediction fall ? 

Oh, who shall say what loving voice 

That pure white soul has heard, 
When budding leaves and opening flowers 

By God's sweet breath were stirred ? 

Perhaps three sisters were never more dissimilar 
than Mary, Elisabeth, and Hannah Shapleigh. 

Mrs. Olive Perkins, of Great Falls, who was a 
school-girl with them, has given us a memory of 
them all : — 

Elisabeth was my pet playmate. Mary was 
older, and more select in her choice of girls. Elisa- 
beth was all loveliness, and yet with a manner and 
spirit that did not generalize her. She had her 
own intimates. But Hannah was universal. She 
was open to anybody, irrespective of notions or 
dispositions; and hence she was everybody's play- 
mate. Whoever came first, she was at home 
with." 



Elisabeth and Hannah, being nearest of age, 
were dressed alike on Lord's Days. Yet the dress 
never blended the characters. Elisabeth was the 
pink of precision in voice and manner. Beautiful 
in face, — so beautiful that she was acknowledged 
as surpassing her mates, — she was also exquisite 
in all the appointments of her attire and behavior. 

Never did one discover an unnecessary fold or a 
wrinkle. Never did she misplace shawl or school 
satchel. She dressed and stepped as if she were 
consciously in order and ready at every moment. 

Hannah, with a wealth of raven hair, a face as 
fair and clear as spring sunlight, yet less in beauty 
than Elisabeth, never gave thought to what she 
wore or how she wore it. The methodical Elisa- 
beth was distressed about her, and daily adjusted 
the more careless sister's shawl, ribbon, or gown; 
but the free, open-hearted Hannah, neither in 
youth nor in womanhood, gave any attention to 
dress or fashion. "I never like a new dress," she 
wrote after her marriage, "for I do not get ac- 
quainted with it till it is half worn out.'' But, if 
Mrs. Farmer was thoughtless, it was also singu- 
larly true that no one who called upon her would, 
be able to describe her dress. She drew people by 
the personal and indefinable charm of her presence, 
and never by externals. As Whittier said of his 
mother's friend : — 

" Yet with her went a secret sense 
Of all things sweet and fair; 
And beauty's gracious providence 
Refreshed her unaware." 



In her later years she did not change even the 
arrangement of her hair, combing, as long as she 
lived, the dark glossy locks over her ears, the 
style all the while to the contrary. Yet she was 
never careless; thoughtless, indeed, but never lack- 
ing comeliness and appropriateness, even if the 
looking-glass shared not in her equipping. 

One who was much in the family well remembers 
the difference between the sisters Elisabeth and 
Hannah, as they came in from school. Elisabeth's 
invariable and peculiarly thoughtful query as she 
hung up her shawl and hood was, "What can I do, 
mother, to help?" Hannah as quickly seized a 
book, and was ensconced in the comfortable chair, 
and drifted mentally with the story or the history. 
Hannah also had her dream-days, as the family 
called them. For several successive days she 
went without speaking, without interest in the 
domestic externals; and "Hannah's dreams" finally 
became a family cognition. But, as soon as dream- 
land was passed, the spell shattered, the girl 
life rebounded; and the overflow of spirits, the 
complete reaction, was so apparent and outbursting 
that all the propriety of Mary, the elder sister, 
was brought to the surface. She would exclaim, 
"Hannah will be the distress of us, for she will 
never be more than a hoiden," — a gentle way, 
perhaps., of saying tom-boy. 

A laughable story is told by an old schoolmate 
of the love of a boy scarcely in his first long boots. 
His ideal girl was the Hannah Shapleigh of our 



story. He made up his mind that no larger boy 
should drag her on his sled or walk beside her 
going from school; but, alas for the lad and his 
sled! Hannah's preference was to go afoot. When 
he urgently asked why she did not ride, "Well," 
she answered, "your house isn't painted white." 
The zealous lad thought he could easily make up a 
deficit no more important; and, when for days his 
mother sought in vain for her tallow jar to have 
another dipping of candles, the son made full 
confession that he was appropriating it to rub over 
the clapboards, that they might thereby live in a 
white house, and so conciliate Hannah Shapleigh. 

Mrs. Elisabeth (Quimby) Libby recalls, among 
many little incidents, a story of Hannah's girlhood 
illustrative of her simple faith in what she read, 
and a foregleam, perhaps, of her confidence through 
life in the written word of God. "There was a 
maiden lady,' writes Mrs. Libby, "in Berwick 
at that date named Andrews; and she was the sister 
of one Simon Andrews. Hannah was reading in 
the New Testament one day of Jesus entering the 
house of the brothers Simon and Andrew (Mark i. 
29, 30). Finding Simon's mother-in-law sick, he 
healed her of the fever. Hannah in her childish 
innocence supposed she had found a reference in 
Scripture to the family of Simon Andrews, and the 
enthusiasm of the girl over this biographical intel- 
ligence from such a sacred source provoked the 
mirth of her auditors." 

But, even in these uncertain and half-fledged 



9 

days, the true Hannah, which was so markedly de- 
fined in the mature life, now and again was mani- 
fest, like the freshening of the spring leaves. 
One morning, when she was not more than fourteen 
years, she passed a house where a father, under the 
control of a flask, was cruel in his blows upon the 
back of his little nine-year-old, motherless son. 
With the presence and power of the grown-up 
woman, Hannah seized the boy, and commanded 
the heartless parent to desist. He insolently told 
her he should continue the stripes as long as it 
would gratify him. She doubled her girlish fist, 
and defied the man to strike another blow under the 
penalty of the law. Taking the child's hand, she 
told the irate father that she would find a home for 
him, and place him beyond his cruelty. And she 
did. She took the motherless lamb from house to 
house till a kindly and continued home was guar- 
anteed. Ah! how many child-hearts did she make 
glad in the years that followed, and how many in 
the heavenly home will kiss her very feet in 
thanksgiving for the deeds of her boundless heart 
and the sympathy which in her was a heavenly gift 
and grace! 

Another pleasing memory of her childhood 
gleams out in a letter which she wrote from one of 
her Salem homes to the gentle sufferer Mrs. 
Souther, of Hingham, whose name in print, attached 
to her poems, was Anemone. She asked of Mrs. 
Farmer the story of her childhood, and she was told 
this among other reminiscences : — 



TO 



" It was only necessary for me to read my lessons 
once to recite them word for word. Recently my 
first Sabbath-school teacher came to see me. She 
is now my dear aunt Apphia. She related the 
story of one Sunday in my young girlhood which 
she remembered. She had told her class that she 
would give a book to the one who would recite the 
next Sabbath the greatest number of Bible texts 
without prompting. The day came; and, as I sat 
at the head of the seat, she naturally asked me to 
recite first. I began to repeat, and continued 
through every moment allotted to the school ses- 
sion; and, when the superintendent gave the clos- 
ing rap, I said to her, C I haven't recited half the 
texts which I know.' Not one of the other dear 
little children had the chance to compete for the 
book that day. To make amends, the somewhat 
amused as well as puzzled teacher told the rest of 
the class that they should have their opportunity 
the next Sunday. They all did so well that she 
invited us to her house to tell us who was to have 
the prize. When we went, the dear generous soul 
had a book for each of us. I told this dear woman, 
as she recalled the incident at my bedside, that I 
could show her the very book which she gave me, 
with her autograph, Apphia Locke, still upon the 
fly-leaf." 

This beloved Sunday-school teacher, afterwards 
the wife of Mrs. Farmer's uncle Thomas Shapleigh, 
still lives in the beauty and mellowness of her 
autumn days, a benediction to the children and 



1 1 



grandchildren who cannot but love and bless 
her. 

To Mary Shapleigh, the eldest of the group of 
Berwick sisters and the first to die, the younger 
sisters always showed a deference. She uncon- 
sciously commanded it, and her memory has been 
beautiful for the more than fifty years since her 
transition. Mary was wholly different in character 
from every one in the family save in feature. She 
inherited her father's face, but never his gracious 
recognition of all ages, grades, and occupations. 
Neither did she have her mother's arms, open to 
any distress. She was unique and excessively 
individual. With a complete consciousness and 
balance, she had a native separateness, which gave 
her an intuition of the people she needed or de- 
sired; and all the rest of the world was obsolete. 
It is remembered that a new family came to Black- 
berry Hill. 'Squire Shapleigh, with his marked 
politeness, had called upon them. His wife had 
taken special pains to recognize them at the meet- 
ing-house on Sundays ; and, when the newly arrived 
matron returned these civilities, and came to the 
Shapleighs, Miss Mary, with a queenly indication 
that she saw nothing in her or the family which 
was specially winsome, refused an introduction, and 
never condescended to enter herself on the list of 
associates. 

When Mary and her most intimate school-girl 
had bought silk dresses alike, and delighted in 
their becomingne'ss, she discovered that a third 



12 



young woman, likewise charmed by the pattern and 
style, had duplicated the same for her wedding- 
gown. Mary, indignant at such presumption, laid 
aside the prettiness; for its charm to her had gone 
forever. 

She was the affianced of Timothy G. Senter, 
known to us as the late respected Principal of Dean 
Academy, Franklin, Mass. So tender and abiding 
was his love that, for the thirty-five years that he 
survived her, he made an annual visit to her grave; 
and, when he was dead, the lock of her hair which 
he had devotedly kept was sent by his widow to 
Mary's sisters, as a memorial of unquenched affec- 
tion. Love is everlasting life. And yet, with 
this strength of soul union, a quaint tradition has 
floated down the more than half-century of years of 
the raspingness of the two young loves and lovers, 
and the way in which the resolute and independent 
Mary relieved her wounded heart. What occa- 
sioned the ripple or which was to blame, it matters 
not now. We are talking only of Mary. But the 
ripple came, and her proud nature repelled any 
effort of conciliation. She announced to her father 
and mother that she should be missing some day, 
and they need not ask where she was going or when 
she should return. They understood her too 
thoroughly to be anxious, and the stage carried 
her away one delightful morning in 1835. The 
spunky girl went, it seems, to Lowell, that de- 
sideratum of wholesome New England girls of the 
last generation, which has been so livingly pen- 



pictured by Lucy Larcom, Harriet Robinson (wife 
of Warrington), and others ; and there she stayed 
three months. One little waif of her Lowell life 
comes down to us like the far-away echo of her 
voice. It is a letter which she wrote to her dearest 
girl, Dorcas I. Shorey, now Mrs. Horace Little- 
field of Wells, and dated fifty-six years ago. It 
is a glimpse of girl life at seventeen years, of 
offended love, and is a memory also of the thread 
so soon broken, but picked up again, who can 
doubt, in the Beyond, and woven into the eternal 
fabric. The letter bears the postmark of Lowell; 
and, as its postage was ten cents, we dare say that 
the correspondence of young misses was not over- 
flowing. 

"Lowell, Oct. 12, 1835. 

" Dear Dorcas, — I have seated myself in Lowell 
to devote a few moments in penning lines for your 
perusal. Probably you will be much surprised. 
O Dorcas, you do not know what changes have 
taken place since last we met. I will just say 
before I go any farther that I went to the post-office 
the whole of one week to get a letter from you ; and 
at last I did get one, but not in season to write you 
from Great Falls. I went to the office on Wednes- 
day before I came away, and Shackford told me he 
had a pair of letters for me; and I was very much 
gratified to receive yours. The other you will 
very well know who it was from; and it remains 
unanswered, and will, I guess, for as much as a 



14 

month. Dorcas, I wish you could have read it, my 
dearest. Oh, dear! I know not what will come 
next. You, I hope. They want you here very 
much indeed. Don't you content yourself in New- 
market another day after you get my letter. O 
Dorcas, fly to Mary's arms, and find a home in her 
warm heart. They are very much in want of girls 
in the spinning-room, and good wages will be 
given. The least they make is $2.25 per week. I 
can look from my window to the mill where they 
want help, and see the girls at their work. It is 
about as far as the Falls to the covered bridge. I 
stop with Mrs. Dennis on the Merrimac Corpora- 
tion. If you should come here, you would never 
want to see Newmarket again. The factories there 
would look more like State prisons than anything 
else. There is something in Lowell to take up 
one's attention all the time, and I am contented 
and in pretty good spirits most of the time. The 
recollection of friends far, far away and of past 
enjoyments sometimes depresses me. If I had you 
here, I should not want any one else. The people 
are not so particular as at the Falls. There is a 
great variety of dress, — cloaks, pelisses, white 
dresses worn yesterday, and furred capes and boas. 
I have got me a green cloak; and you shall have 
one, too, so that we can both dress alike again. I 
am going to have green trimming for my bonnet. 
I have a new dress; and you shall have one, too, as 
soon as you get here, and a boa to keep your neck 
warm. I have got to ruffle a cape to-day; and I 



i5 

will ruffle one for you if you want me to. I am 
in the midst of Baptist folks. They are trying to 
make one of me, but I guess they won't. I went to 
the First Baptist Church in the forenoon yester- 
day, the Second Baptist in the afternoon, and 
again in the evening. We will go to the Univer- 
salist when you get here. I shall not write you 
anything about the week I spent after you left the 
Falls. You know whom you left. I will tell you 
when you come. Don't forget, don't forget me. 

" From your friend, 

"Mary P. Shapleigh." 

And so this girl of seventeen, in the busy but 
interesting Lowell life of 1835, prattled on, and 
then sealed her letter with a great red wafer, and 
stamped it with her thimble top. 

The following December she dates another letter 
from her Berwick (Great Falls) home, and tells 
Dorcas she is "to go to Eliot and spend the winter, 
and attend school" at the academy. Then, with the 
natural courage and anticipation of youth, she adds, 
"If nothing happens, Dorcas, in the spring, you 
and I will go to Lowell and spend the summer." 
And she closes the page with the intelligence that 
"Timothy [her betrothed] was up Thanksgiving 
Day with his sister. He called to see pa and ma 
twice, and he sent pa a newspaper yesterday; and 
I am going to send it back. Wouldn't you, Dor- 
cas?" The paper, perhaps, was never remailed; 



i6 



and Mary and Timothy, like many other lovers, 
became once more in full sympathy, so that at New 
Year's she writes, "Timothy is to come for the 
holidays." She wishes Dorcas not only a happy 
New Year, but "fifty on the end of it"; and then, 
with the interest in dress which was characteristic, 
she writes that her " Sunday bonnet is lined with 
satin, and has plumes upon it" ; and "you cannot 
think how the white bow made my head ache. I 
could not go to the afternoon meeting." Then 
comes the maidenish wish, " If I were only with 
you to-night, I would fix you up for the dancing 
school in good style." 

It was when she w T as returning from one of 
these evening assemblies, fashionable then, that 
her fatal disease became apparent. Full of mirth 
and life, magnetic in her power, she was covering 
the entire company with laughter, when suddenly 
came the unmistakable cough and hemorrhage. 
From that moment the steps to the Unseen were 
certain. One year later she died in her lover's 
arms. Instead of the altar was the bier. 

Timothy Senter came to spend the New Year, 
1837, with her. She had grown feeble, but her 
courage had not faltered. The day after the New 
Year he went to her room to give her his greeting. 
In an instant she was gone. His immediate sum- 
mons brought the household to the spot, even to 
the feeble Elisabeth, who had ceased to be dressed. 
She sprang from her bed, and, entering the room of 
death, fainted, and was carried away. There was 



i7 

not a word of farewell, not a look of love. Mary 
was with God. How tenderly the father's pen 
conveyed the intelligence to his brother Thomas 
Shapleigh, at Hallowell: — 

"Oh, how can I inform you, my dear brother, 
that my dear Mary is no more? On Monday last 
the summons came. Sitting in her chair, and no 
one present but Timothy, she put her arms about 
his neck, kissed him, and died, leaning her head on 
his shoulder. Brother Thomas, I cannot say with 
one of old, 'If thou hadst been here, my child had 
not died ' ; but I can say, if you had been here to 
sympathize with us in our affliction, it would have 
afforded great relief. It seems sometimes as 
though my trouble would be too great for me, and 
I could not endure it if it were not for the promises 
and the grace of God." 

He closes his letter with the comfort, "Thanks 
be to God, she died not before we had evidence that 
she was prepared." But the father's hope of his 
daughter's safety did not satisfy the mother's 
anxious heart. Mary had never united with the 
church of her parents' choice, though she was true 
to her training and regularly attended Sunday meet- 
ings. Her mother, troubled that she left no ex- 
pressed desire for public confession, grieved long 
lest the soul was not in peace. The sympathetic 
Hannah, while she doubted not for an instant the 
welfare of the departed girl, longed to convey a 
substantial and convincing relief to the mother- 
heart. As if in response to her daughterly yearn- 



i8 



ing, unto her was given a dream, so real and so 
vivid that it was like a vision or revelation. Mary, 
beautiful and glistening like an angel, came to 
her with a wide-open New Testament, and, point- 
ing to a text indicative of the joys of the redeemed, 
left a lasting impression on the young sister's mind 
that the words specified the eternal life and experi- 
ence of the departed. The unction and fervor with 
which Hannah related her dream relieved forever 
the heartache, and gave the maternal bosom peace. 
God has a thousand ways of revealing his love. 
"So will I comfort you." 

In the little enclosure at Eliot, the spot which 
Mrs. Farmer called her garden, is the monument 
which reads : — 

MARY PAUL SHAPLEIGH. 

BORN MAY 17, l8l 7. 

DIED JAN. 2, 1837. 

AGED 20 YEARS. 

" Until the day break and the shadows flee away." 

One little month passed, and Elisabeth died of 
the same subtle disease; and again the sorrowful 
procession went to the burying-ground, and one 
more inscription gives the brief tale: — 

ELISABETH YEATON SHAPLEIGH. 

BORN MARCH 9, l82I. 

DIED FEB. 6, 1837. 

AGED l6 YEARS. 

" Forever with the Lord." 



19 

And again the dear father wrote to Thomas, his 
brother: "Our dear Elisabeth died in triumphs of 
faith in the blessed Saviour. From Wednesday 
previous to her death she had no doubt to becloud 
her mind. On Sunday she kissed us all, and took 
an affectionate farewell. About five minutes before 
she expired she asked Dr. Smith if she had any 
pulse; and, when she was told that she had, she 
replied that she was sorry, for she was in hopes it 
had ceased to beat." 

The death of another of this interesting family 
is linked with a legend which seems like the Bible 
stories of the voice of God. Albert was evidently 
spirituel in his make-up, and his departure at eight 
years was but little distinct from translation. It 
was in this wise. The Shapleigh children were at 
play in the barn; and Albert exclaimed, "Mother 
calls me," and he ran in quick response. "I did 
not call, my son," said the mother, in that gentle 
tone always familiar to her children. He ran to 
his play, and shortly repeated himself, "Mother 
does call me," and again he hurried to her side. 
"Mother, what do you wish, for you do call me?" 
"Nay, lad, mother hasn't spoken." The third 
time he hastened within door, saying, "Why, 
mother, you must be calling me, or else God is; 
and, if I must die, I must." It was God. A 
little white headstone to-day has his name, "Al- 
bert." It was simply another whisper of God, such 
as he breathed into young Samuel's ear, only unto 
Samuel was granted length of days and the eye of 



20 



the seer, while to this child was given the years 
that are forever. 

When Mary and Elisabeth had been laid side by 
side, everybody said Hannah would go next and 
speedily. The same consumptive cough, the face 
of pallor and the hectic tinge. What could save 
her? To her it would have been a salvation from 
a life of agonies, to us a loss of the myriad bene- 
dictions she only could give. She heard the pre- 
dictions, and into her heart came the intuition that 
she was needful to her father, the idol of her 
intense being. It saved her. It gave power to the 
will and brain. She defied death, and had more 
than half a century of additional years. 




RICHARD SHAPLEIGH. 



II. 



THE FATHER S MEMORIAL. 



RICHARD SHAPLEIGH, the father of Mrs. 
Farmer, was the son of Samuel and Betsey 
(Yeaton) Shapleigh. He was born May 30, 1794, 
and died Oct. 11, 1840, aged forty-six years, his 
very prime. "He died before his work was done," 
said Horace Littlefield, of Wells, who well knew 
him; and so say all in whose memories he lives. 
But God says, " Our works follow us " ; and, if 
they do, others bring them to a full completeness, 
and Mrs. Farmer never doubted her call and equip- 
ment to accomplish what her father had greatly 
desired, but died too early to complete. She was 
in actual character a duplicate of her father's men- 
tal, moral, and religious life; and perhaps the only 
one of the many children of his household who was 
in face and character his exact image. She fre- 
quently affirmed that she should live to evolve the 
broken ideals of the father she idolized, and for 
whom she yearned until her earthly days were all 
counted. 

Richard Shapleigh' s mother, Betsey (Yeaton) 
Shapleigh, was born in Epping, N.H., and is 
remembered because of her shrewd grasp of the 



22 



earthly goods which were hers by right of dowry, 
and for the temper which sometimes manifested it- 
self by very crisp silences, broken now and again 
by words which were sharp, quick, and cool as a 
rifle. In her husband's disposition of a part of the 
real estate, she did not always add her autograph to 
the deeds ; and, in her widowhood, she claimed the 
yearly rent of her legal thirds of the said property. 
It is now remembered that the wife of one of her 
sons (Mrs. Jane Shapleigh) sometimes went quietly 
and paid the old lady her quarterly due; and the 
son, who had purchased the father's land, was kept 
in ignorance of his mother's demand, and thereby 
spared the rebellion and honest indignation which 
might have stirred his otherwise quiet breast. 

Samuel Shapleigh, the father of Richard, was 
the counterpart, fortunately, of Betsey, his wife. 
He was impressive in his pleasantness. His 
memory is genial and fresh to-day because of his 
genuine, natural goodness and willingness, — traits 
which he transmitted with abounding interest to 
his son Richard and his grand-daughter Hannah. 

Samuel and Betsey had six sons and one daugh- 
ter; and of this group, who lived to maturity, it 
might be enough to say of the son Richard that 
he was the father of Mrs. Farmer. But a fuller 
revealing of this true man may the better help us 1 
to understand the singular goodness and continued^ 
zeal of the daughter of his love and joy. 

Richard Shapleigh was a perfect type of a coun- 
try 'squire of fifty years ago. One who well 



23 

remembers him, and who is himself of reputation 
to-day (Haven Butler, Esquire), says : " Not five 
men in a hundred would equal him, and probably 
none excel him." It is strange how varied were 
his duties and professions in church, town, and 
State. He was not a lawyer, and yet he was so 
well read that he had his office in association with 
another (Shapleigh & Burleigh). He drew up 
wills, filled out deeds, settled estates, was legal 
adviser in all sorts of county needs, disputes, and 
difficulties, collected debts, made arrests, and by 
wise adjustments and prudent counsels saved many 
a case from trial by jury. He was justice of the 
peace, deputy sheriff, representative for two terms 
(1828-29) in the General Court at Augusta; a 
teacher for years, perhaps as long as he lived, in 
the public schools of the different towns in which 
he resided; a practical and accurate surveyor, 
having a natural love for mathematics, and his 
dimmed and rusty instruments are to-day among 
the treasured relics which the grandchildren, whom 
he did not live to see and love, treasure in respect 
to his memory. He was possessed also of the den- 
tal instruments of his day, and was an adept in 
relieving forever the sufferings of aching teeth; 
and what is quite surprising, considering the ex- 
quisite kindness of his heart and the constant 
deeds of benevolence and love of his hands, he ex- 
celled in the use of the gun, and was unfailing in 
bringing down the game, — a bit of cruelty pardon- 
able perhaps in the days when the Society for the 



24 

Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had not even 
been a dream, and never a word to mitigate the dis- 
tress of beast and fowl had been uttered. With 
this love of the woods and the gun was combined a 
desire for pets. He secured and fondled his turtle 
doves, entrapped and educated the gray squirrels, 
and delighted in their encaged pranks; while the 
dog and the cat were always a domestic incorpora- 
tion. 

It was not alone that he had native tact in these 
varied professions and pursuits, but his daily 
demeanor was more than his acquirements. The 
universal testimony is that his stately bearing, his 
strong and balanced brain, his invariable courtesy 
and politeness, his thorough as well as his general 
information, gave him the respect of the entire 
county; for he was known abroad as well as in his 
town and home. He probably settled his relation 
to God and the church in the freshness of his life, 
and his religious strength and power increased 
with his years. Whatever was honorable became 
a graft in his life, and was made the more honor- 
able by his practical and experimental development 
and use of it. Mrs. Farmer, a little before her 
departure, wrote of her father's religious history: — 

"My own sainted father became a Christian in 
early life; and, if ever a man was faithful to God, 
I think he was. He had the courage to stand for 
the right in the face of the world. Those who 



■& j 



held different theological views loved him for his 



& 



fearlessness. He was mild and sweet in his ways, 



25 

but the moment he saw wrong-doing connected with 
even a good movement Satan knew his effort was a 
lost one." 

This unflinching will to be true and correct gave 
'Squire Shapleigh the parish confidence, and it is 
not strange that he is recorded as a deacon of the 
church and its clerk. He was the right hand of 
the clergymen under whose ministrations he sat, 
giving them his constant and vocal support in the 
mid-week prayer sessions as well as in the executive 
and financial needs. 

He began what may be called his public career 
as a naval seaman in the War of 1 812. All young 
men of that period were obliged by law "to train." 
Every town had its military company, which was 
usually its pride; and the "general training-day" 
was the gala event of the year. Richard Shapleigh 
and his three older brothers had preference for the 
navy, and entered as seamen, and served during the 
war in that capacity. 

As a public school teacher, as well as a family 
disciplinarian, he can never be forgotten. The 
magnetism of his voice, presence, and eye, is yet a 
vital power, though the text of the book may long 
since have faded from memory. Mrs. Farmer, in a 
letter to a young friend, gives a delightful remi- 
niscence of this sterling teacher and father, as well 
as a glimpse of the days when the Puritan spirit 
was a cherished inheritance; and, as Mr. Shap- 
leigh was educated under the tutorage of the parish 
minister, Rev. Samuel Chandler of Eliot, it is 



\6 



quite remarkable that he did not imbibe the con- 
stant flavor of the veritable Puritan in its severity 
as well as its delightful integrity. "My father," 
writes Mrs. Farmer, "was a teacher, and governed 
his schools with his eye. Once, when taking up 
school duties afresh, he found a collection of rods 
under the desk. He asked if the scholars knew 
what they were for. A young man, as tall as my 
father, said promptly, but rather roughly, 'They 
are to whack us over the head.' Father responded, 
"Since they can be of no use to us, I will burn 
them.' Another big boy said, 'I guess you'll find 
a want for them before the week is out'; and all 
the scholars laughed outright. My father stood as 
erect as a statue, and turned his eyes from one part 
of the room to the other; and in a moment the 
house had the stillness of the grave. He had 
twelve children of his own, and not one of them 
ever felt the weight of his hand. The spirit that 
governed his home was taken into his schools, — 
the home where the voice of prayer and song was 
heard every morning. What would he say to-day 
if he could visit some places where boys and girls 
are preparing for life's battles? I never heard a 
cross word spoken by my father or my mother to 
one of their children, and I was almost eighteen 
years old when the shadow fell which changed 
the course of my life's current." 

Of his family discipline and manner of train- 
ing, perhaps no incident will reveal the method 
clearer than his response to Hannah, when she de- 



27 

sired to enter a childlike but very natural com- 
plaint. She came one day from school in high 
dudgeon because a mate had decidedly maltreated 
her, and her indignation was righteous according to 
the accounting of her companions. To her father 
she began the dire story, and he very quietly inter- 
rupted her by asking, — 

"Hannah, what day is it?" 

"Wednesday, father." 

"Well, supposing you tell me all about it a week 
from to-day; that is, next Wednesday." 

"Next Wednesday? Why, I shall forget all 
about it before then." 

"Well, dear, if you forget it in less than a week, 
maybe you had better leave it unsaid." 

The child saw the point in a twinkling, and the 
lesson was lifelong. Many and many were the 
unsaid words of her divinely human days. 

A show of very uncertain character, but of great 
fascination, arrived at Berwick; and the sagacious 
Shapleigh children agreed not to mention it to 
mother, but to make an immediate appeal to father. 
With assurance of success, they ran and made their 
requests known. He quietly smiled upon them; 
and, with the love of a great heart, and yet, with a 
look that indicated that he quite well understood 
and read the childlike escapade, he answered, "Go, 
dears, and see what mother says about it." 

As deputy sheriff and justice of the peace, sev- 
eral interesting and amusing incidents are family 
remembrances. He went one early 



28 



serve a writ. Knocking at the door, he asked if 
the man were within. "Well," said the wife, "it 
depends on who you are. If you are Sheriff Shap- 
leigh, he's gone away, and you can't find him; but, 
if you are anybody else, he's out in the hay-mow." 
He had an unflinching courage, and never failed to 
go where official duty and philanthropy called. It 
is remembered that a lusty and brutal inebriate had 
beaten his wife and defied his neighbors, when 
'Squire Shapleigh was sent for to do what others 
had failed to accomplish. Before Mr. Shapleigh 
appeared, the infuriated animal had supplied himself 
with a club like a weaver's beam, and had brand- 
ished it with the threat that the 'squire's brains 
should be scattered to the four winds. Mr. Shap- 
leigh, with the serenity of a summer day, walked 
up to the fury, looked him in the eye, shackled his 
fists, — the man's vim was as a wilted weed. 
Trouble was over. No word of authority, no bran- 
dishing of club, no apparent human effort; but the 
evil had succumbed. The presence and balance of 
a well-ordered intellect and life is a mighty factor 
sometimes. 

During his terms of legal office he was occasion- 
ally overtaken by night, and could not reach the 
county jail with his handcuffed prisoner; and he 
was obliged to keep him at his house until morn- 
ing. He would appeal to the prisoner's honor, 
tell him he would take off his shackles, and carry 
him to his house without a word to embarrass him, 
if he would prove himself worthy of his liberty. 



29 

He would give the man a bath, a clean night-shirt, 
a wholesome bed; and never did a culprit break 
the integrity of his promise or cease to respect the 
sheriff. 

When Mr. Shapleigh was elected representative 
to the General Court at Augusta, it was not so 
much as a partisan that he was sent as because of 
his fitness as a man and a citizen. His Democratic 
opponent was Sheldon Hobbs. A quaint incident 
of the election is told by Haven Butler, Esq., of 
Berwick. His father (Oliver Butler) had pur- 
chased a new and brightly painted sleigh before 
the eventful day of the ballot. In his zealous 
desire to secure the votes of all the Whigs to send 
'Squire Shapleigh to Augusta, he drove up street 
and down to carry the aged, the decrepit, the inca- 
pacitated, to the polls. And when, in the flush of 
the successful election, he appeared at his dinner 
table, and with beaming face announced to his fam- 
ily the desired result, he found no radiance in the 
eyes of his spouse, and only the rather tart re- 
sponse, "But you have worn all the paint from the 
runners of the new sleigh in doing it." All vic- 
tories cost a good deal, and all joys are liable to 
be dampened. 



III. 



FIRESIDE LEGENDS. 



FROM the memories of the father, Richard 
Shapleigh, we can turn now to the glimpses 
of his wife and the mother of his children, Olive 
(Tobey) Shapleigh, and unveil the home days of 
her ancestral New England family in the simple, 
sincere period of but few embellishments, and when 
all the interests of a neighborhood or parish were 
in common. The joys intermingled. The sorrows 
were one. 

Olive was the third of the seven children of 
James Tobey, ship carpenter, and Hannah (Shap- 
leigh) Tobey, his wife. James Tobey died at 
Eliot the day after Christmas, 1846, aged seventy- 
eight years. His birthday was June 22, 1769; and 
his wife Hannah, whom he tenderly loved to the 
end, was born two days later. They were married 
Nov. 5, 1792, and journeyed in most endearing 
fellowship till the Golden Wedding had been 
passed four years. At the time of his departure, 
Alfred Little of Boscawen, a guest at a delightful 
"Tobey Gathering," wrote the following verses, 
which appeared in local prints : — 



JAMES TOBEY. 
June 22, 1769 — Dec. 26, 1846. 

The good old man is dead, 

Gone to his heavenly home, 
While weeping mourners strew 

The cypress o'er his tomb. 

Once, only once, did I 

Before this old man stand, 
When, leading her, his wife, 

He eager grasped my hand. 

Together then they stood, 

And these words did he say : 
" Our ages are the same 

Within a fleeting day. 

" For four-and-fifty years 

We've shared each other's joy, 
And ne'er a word unkind 

Been suffered to alloy. 

" Our children, they are seven, 

Have risen to fill our place ; 
Nor in our home has death 

E'er left his cruel trace ! " 

Oh, I remember well 

That beauteous, aged pair, 
As hand in hand they stood 

So eloquently there. 

And, when the fading eyes 

Were closed in Death's embrace, 

A smile of heavenly glow 

Beamed o'er the old man's face. 

Hannah, his loving wife, lived until her ninety- 
second birthday, June 24, 1861. She had the sin- 
gular desire that the date of her birth should be the 



32 

date of her death. God indulged her in her wish. 
She was a woman of rare poise of nerve and mus- 
cle. In her girlhood she was returning through 
the woods to her home on horseback. Suddenly 
the bridle was grasped by a ruffianly hand, as if the 
intent was to end her progress, and possess either 
herself or her horse. With perfect control of the 
situation and peril, she struck her steed a blow, 
which startled him to an instant spring, and with 
the same breath she gave the arm that had pre- 
sumed to interfere with her progress a stroke like 
the weight of a cudgel ; and she only knew that the 
demon was left somewhere sprawling in the under- 
brush, while she rode on like a princess. She 
neither sought to know his name, his purpose, nor 
what became of him. She did not allow the sud- 
den adventure to frighten her from any further 
horseback journeys when occasion demanded them. 
She was perfectly at ease on Dobbin's back, and 
one of the grand old willows on the margin of 
Tobey Pond grew from the riding stick which she 
pressed into the yielding soil as she one day dis- 
mounted at the pasture bars. 

Her perfect self-possession was an inheritance, 
it may be, from her own grandmother, whose tragic 
death even did not rob her of the careful, unself- 
ish remembrance of others or fill her with anx- 
ious thoughts of her own well-being. This grand- 
mother of Hannah Tobey (on her mother's side) 
was Dorcas Bartlett. She lived in the fearful time 
of Indian warfare and revenge. It was Lord's Day; 



33 

and, sitting upon the pillion behind her husband, 
she was returning from the meeting-house. The 
worthy couple in the strength of their days were 
riding through the pasture (now owned by Chand- 
ler Shapleigh); and the unerring bullet of an 
Indian brought her to the earth. Her husband 
sprang in his fright and agony of heart from his 
horse to lift her up; but, with the fainting breath, 
she said: "It is death to me. Escape, and save the 
children." He perceived the inevitable, jumped 
upon his horse. Others fled with him to his own 
farm-house, and the barricade of himself and his 
neighbors proved effectual. From that hour the 
desperate grief of the husband nerved him to hunt 
the red men; and once, when he was obliged to 
escape and secrete himself in a hollow tree, he 
heard savage threats as swift feet passed in deadly 
pursuit. 

Hannah Tobey earned the reputation in her very 
girl-life of "a lass with a great deal of pluck," and 
she was also exceedingly agreeable in her compan- 
ionships and a favorite with all her mates. One of 
the legends yet told of her is the novel way she 
undertook to reconcile an old man and wife. The 
irritated dame had domiciled herself below stairs, 
and had left the entire upper rooms to her hus- 
band's convenience and pleasure. Both lived in 
glum silence. Hannah was but a girl, yet she 
understood the parish gossip. One evening, walk- 
ing home with her mates, she determined to give 
the old lady a scare, and send her to her husband 



34 

for protection. Loitering behind the young people, 
she stepped softly to the door. The latchstring 
had been drawn in for the night, and the candle 
was extinguished. It was an ancient door and 
rickety. The resolute Hannah gave such an un- 
earthly rap that every peg in it rattled, and the 
frightened woman hurried upstairs to her hus- 
band's protection. The sudden terror broke the 
silence, and the couple made up. 

When Hannah married James Tobey in 1792, she 
went to live in his father's house and family, as 
James could not be spared from the paternal hearth. 
It was the date when property was delegated by the 
fathers to the sons, and the broad acres were kept 
in the family name for generations. The Tobey 
land was first possessed as a grant, and was still 
in the name in 1861, when Hannah Tobey died. 

In the year 1800 the original house of the Tobey 
grant was vacated for a new house a few rods away. 
The elate of this new home is identical with the 
birth of the fourth of the seven children, the babe 
born June 3, 1800, whom they named Isabel, and 
who is now the last survivor of the household and 
saintly matron of ninety-two years, whose name will 
necessarily blend again and again with the narra- 
tions of these pages. Olive, the mother of Mrs. 
Farmer, the third of the seven, was the last birth 
in the earliest house. 

When James Tobey was married, he was not "a 
professor," but had both the principle and the 
moral courage to read the Scriptures aloud every 



35 

Sabbath afternoon after the sermon. The family 
reading for the week-days was the "Columbian 
Orator," "The Preceptor," and the weekly New 
Hampshire Gazette. "And we never dreamed," 
said old Aunt Isabel, "that we should ever have 
any more books or better ones." 

All the children of this household were allowed 
to go to singing-school. Widow Rogers rented a 
room in her house to an elderly man, who came 
once a week in a boat. His son came with him, to 
have a care of him in crossing the Piscataqua, lest 
some evil befall him in the darkness of the return: 
for the tin lanterns of that day were of but little 
service, and friction matches were hardly in the 
market. Both James and Hannah were lovers of 
song, and in their youth sat in the Sunday singing 
seats; and the sweetness of Hannah's voice con- 
tinued till her daughters were grown up and mar- 
ried. And, even then, mother and three of her 
wedded daughters, Olive Shapleigh, Lydia Adams, 
Isabel Knowlton, sang together in the old sanctu- 
ary, and listened alike to Parson Chandler's 
wisdom. 

Allusion has been made to the willow which 
grew from the riding stick of grandmother Hannah. 
The grand old trees, which are an inspiration to 
artist and poet, as well as the delightful shade of 
an August day, on the border of Tobey Pond, are 
all indebted for their origin to the thoughtful care 
and, may we not say, the poetic taste (unconscious 
perhaps) of the plain but sensible couple, James 



36 

and Hannah Tobey. The husband struck the 
crowbar into the marginal soil of the refreshing 
waters, while Hannah, the young wife, carried the 
sapling willows in her arms, and placed them in 
position; and so we have the grateful trees, old, 
shaggy, and catching to the eye, and of peculiar 
interest to those who know them as grandmother' s 
trees. Is there not an Arab aphorism that every 
man is honorable who begets a son, owns a horse, 
or plants a tree? Desert wisdom is not to be 
despised. Let us give grateful words to grand- 
mother's memory.* 

The simple domestic life of Hannah Tobey was 
charming. She was the incarnation of quietness 
and kindness. When her seven children realized 
that mother kept steadily along under every circum- 
stance, and was never confused by her own or her 
neighbor's haps, one of her lads determined to dis- 
turb, once at least, her equilibrium. He loaded 
the old king's arm, and crept stealthily beneath the 
open window, where the mother sat darning the 
weekly stockings, as ancient mothers always did. 
But even the most unexpected explosion in the most 
unthought of place and moment did not cause the 
quiet face a shade or expression of alarm. She 
kept along with the darning needle and her placid- 
ity; and her roguish son was foiled, and the mother 
only smiled. 

A delightful feature of her every-day life, in the 

* While this page is being written, an artist, F. H. Tompkins of Boston, while 
at Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua, charmed by this ragged stretch of willows, puts them 
on canvas, and thus gives them a perpetual remembrance- 



37 

absence of books, was the repetition of old ballads 
and Puritan hymns and the frequent singing at her 
work. The twenty-six stanzas of "The Factor" 
and the twenty-eight of "Daniel in the Lion's 
Den," as popular a hundred years ago as the latest 
novel is to-day, the riddle of Jonah's house, and 
the yet ruder rhyme of Adam as the "Top of the 
Tree," which would hardly be tolerated in the 
Woman's Journal, she recited over and over to her 
little brood as they helped in the household duties 
or sat before the winter hearth ; and to-day the dear 
aunt Isabel can render unhesitatingly these old- 
time ballads and sing her mother's hymns, though 
she never saw one of them in print. How far that 
mother's candle throws its beams! 

This ancient Hannah had the frugal ways of the 
wise woman of Solomon's proverbial pen, for she 
spun and wove her flax, and her deft fingers made 
her own wedding outfit; and her wedding linens 
have been in use one hundred years. Unto this 
day are preserved the table covers which she 
wrought before her marriage, from the pulling and 
rotting of the flax to the weaving of the threads. 
She taught her daughters whatever she had learned; 
and they, too, knew what it was to pull the flax, 
then to rot it, then to break, swindle, and comb it, 
and then spin it into the threads which were woven 
in the homely loom. It was homespun, to be sure; 
but no wonder matrons and daughters were proud of 
a toil that was serviceable for a century and as 
white as the riven snow. In addition to all this, 



38 

she caught the happy art of that clay of weaving the 
fringes that gave beauty and finish to certain fab- 
rics of domestic service. 

The thrift of the family enabled the mother to 
be kind to the people of fewer comforts than her 
own. It is remembered that one came to her say- 
ing, "Mrs. Tobey, you haven't any so and so?" 
giving names to some necessities. "Well," Mrs. 
Tobey responded, " you say I haven't" ; and she at 
once brought forth the desirabilities. 

In September, 1814, a curious event occurred in 
the family. Mary, one of the daughters (after- 
wards Mrs. Oliver Paul), was taken distressingly 
ill. She was nine years old the previous February. 
The history of her sufferings is in part inspira- 
tional, and should surely be woven into the family 
story : — 

James Tobey, her father, had a fine vegetable 
garden at his Eliot home, the household pride. 
Hannah, the mother, was walking in it one after- 
noon, looking after its interests, while the father 
was at his ship-building in the Portsmouth yards, 
four miles away. Her daughter Mary came to her, 
and said, "Mother, my head aches, my throat is 
sore, my ears ache, and I ache all over." 

"You have taken cold, child; and mother will 
put you to bed and sweat you." 

The mother instantly repaired to the house, and 
made the hot porridge usually administered when 
people were in chills and fevers. The child pleaded 
that the cradle might be brought below stairs and 



39 

she lie in it. It was a wide cradle, made when 
twins had been added to the family. The indulgent 
mother did not object, and sat by it during the even- 
ing, thinking the child would wake and go to her 
usual bed. By the light of the candle she noted that 
the tongue had protruded. A little later there was an 
increase, and at a third look the astonished mother 
discovered the swollen tongue was below the chin. 
Dr. Emery was called, and in a few days the 
physicians of neighboring towns came in consulta- 
tion. Eventually, the teeth were pressed out by 
this enlargement, and for five months the swollen 
tongue hung lower than the chin. The child could 
neither speak nor hear. No medical treatment 
helped or revealed the disorder. The silent, suffer- 
ing, deaf child became a skeleton. 

In February, 1815, when the emaciated Mary had 
reached her tenth birthday, she sat in her sister 
Isabel's lap. A feather was upon the table, and 
the child motioned for it. It was given her, and 
she signified a wish to write. Isabel told her 
mother, who at once brought a quill and the ink- 
horn. The child by signs asked for the bellows as 
a paper-rest. The mother, seeing her actual intent 
to write, took her into her own lap ; and, placing the 
paper upon the old-fashioned press-board, the child 
wrote an inspirational prescription, which was a 
mystery, to the family at the time, and always re- 
mained so. And surely no explanation need be 
ventured three-fourths of a century later. The old 
yellow sheet, with Mary Tobey's girl signature, 



40 

remains ; and we wonder not, as we read it, at the 
mother's surprise: — 

"You must git some fishes Livers and fry them 
out and take The oil and put it on my Tongue, and 
you must take A Piece Of Boiled Pork and cut it 
in thin slises, put it on my throat, and put it two 
Thicknesses on my throat. It is the Dropsy on my 
tongue. The inside of my head Is all swelled up 
and that is the reason i cant hear. It has been 
made known to me by some higher powers than 
there is on earth or ever will be till the day of 
judgment: it was the lords doings though it is 
marvel In my Eye. I want you to git it As soon 
as you can to put on. With my Poor hands i have 
ben inabled to let you know what the lord has mad 
known unto me. 

" The Lord is good and kind to me 
And O how Thankfull i ought to be." 

"Mary Tobey." 

This was the writing, as serious to the household 
as the handwriting on the walls of Belshazzar's 
palace. The mother was too sensible to let her 
amazement bewilder her, and she was too practical 
not to allow the apparently inspirational paper to 
be tested. At once the pork was put on to boil, 
and a messenger despatched in his boat to James 
Tobey, to ask him to bring home the fishes. When 
James saw the hasty approach of his neighbor, his 
heart pulsed as he said, "Is my poor Mary dead? " 



41 

But the strange paper was given him; and, with a 
loving and sensible father's quickest step, he went 
for "undressed fishes," and then rowed his boat 
across the Piscataqua as perhaps he never had be- 
fore. Implicitly was every direction obeyed; and, 
shall we say strangely, within twenty-four hours 
the tongue had shrunk naturally within the mouth. 
Dr. Emery came and pressed the teeth, and 
within the next twenty-four hours they were in 
line. The child was in normal conditions once 
more, except the hearing. That was not restored. 
But again the little Mary wrote: — 

" I Wish i could speake and hear, but I hope I 
Shall be patient To wait till the lord sees fit to let 
me. I hope I am Thankfull to think I can eat 
Again. I know that I Cant be half thankfull 
enough for the Lord's mercies Unto me for sparing 
me so long as he has. I want all of you To praise 
the Lord for what he has done for me. Praise god 
from whom all blessings flow, praise him All creat- 
ures here below. I suppose that there is some 
That wont blieve what I wrote, but that is no mat- 
ter as long as the Lord Has made it known unto me 
and through his Goodness it did me Good : but if it 
had not ben the Lord's will to have made it known 
unto me, my Tongue must have been out of my 
head now: but He was pleased to spare me A little 
longer and blessed be His holy and ever blessed 
name, praise farther, son and holy ghost : wonders 
on wonders To my view now open. A new more 
words, i am a Going to write in regard to my mind. 



42 

I think I can say that i have felt the Love of God 
in my Soul. I trust I can and I hope every one 
else does : praise God. 

" Come down from above, 
Thou farther of Love. 
And Let thy works shine 
Thou sperit devine." 

"Mary Tobey." 

And now comes the sequel. Mary's married 
sister, Lydia Adams, heard of the child's recovery; 
and, with a sister's joy, she came with her little 
babe to see her. The baby proved such a gladness 
to Mary that she was allowed to have it laid upon 
her own pillow at night. At midnight came a 
thrill of delight; for the completely restored Mary 
filled the house with exclamations: "My ears are 
healed. I can hear the baby breathe. Praise, 
praise the Lord!" The mother awoke, and the 
father and all the children; and the midnight as- 
sembling of the whole house was of such sympathy 
and glad astonishment that the rest of the never-to- 
be-forgotten hours were given to prayers and songs. 
It is no wonder that these things were the theme 
of town talk for days. But the simple folk called 
it divine. 

In her old age Hannah Tobey went to see her 
grand-daughter and namesake, Mrs. Farmer, as we 
glean from a newspaper editorial. It was while 
the Farmer home was on Pearl Street, Salem, — 
a house of God, indeed. The editor said: "There 



43 

is at present in Salem a venerable lady from Eliot, 
Me., ninety years of age, on a visit to some of her 
descendants. As a specimen of her industry, 
skill, and wonderful physical ability, we were 
shown yesterday a pair of nice double-twist cotton 
stockings which she had just completed, and which, 
for evenness of workmanship and elegance of finish, 
would do no discredit to the skilful and nimble 
fingers of the most expert young knitters. This 
lady, who is a memorable example of the mothers 
of the olden time, is Mrs. Hannah Tobey; and she 
is connected with the family of Moses G. Farmer, 
Esq. (a gentleman well known for his ingenious 
inventions and scientific attainments), where she 
is now visiting." The editor added, what might 
perhaps have been left unwritten, "Her active 
habits and industry put to shame the tribe of 
modern young ladies who loll on lounges, inert, 
listless, dreaming away life without a thought of 
doing anything useful, or waste their energies in 
fashionable amusements." 

When Hannah Tobey was separated in 1846 
from the fifty-four years of companionship with her 
husband, it was a most tender sorrow to be left 
behind. They had never ceased to love each other, 
and neither had ever spoken an unkind word; 
and when in 1861, on her ninety-second birthday, 
she, too, rested on her coffin-pillow, children nor 
grandchildren could remember that ever, as it was 
expressed, was "she put out in mind or temper 
with one of them." It is a rare but beautiful 



44 

tribute. She lies at her old husband's side on 
the rim of the beautiful Piscataqua and under "the 
tree of walnut high." And this is the story of the 
home of Olive Tobey Shapleigh; and, with such a 
genial early development, it is no wonder that Mrs. 
Farmer never spoke of her but to say "my blessed 
mother." And it is no wonder that a gentle bene- 
diction fell upon the grand-daughter's life, and 
completed or perfected a character as full of sim- 
ple excellence as was Hannah Tobey' s, and, we may 
safely add, her children's, too. 



IV. 



PULPIT AND DESK, 



GLIMPSES at the early surroundings of Mrs. 
Farmer's parents would be very incomplete 
if we did not visit the pulpit and school desk which 
had, possibly, formative influences equal to, if not 
more positive than, father's rule and mother's 
sway. Eighty years ago the preacher and peda- 
gogue were unquestioned. The pulpit was the 
parish throne, the pedagogue the child's terror. 

Richard and Olive and the fourteen brothers and 
sisters of the two families were trained under the 
same mental and moral regime, for Parson Chand- 
ler was both preacher and schoolmaster. Thirty- 
two years he held the unquestioned dominion by 
week day and holy day, and was so strong in his 
elements that nobody would have presumed to 
disturb or dictate. And perhaps there never was 
an occasion; for he was a true and noble Puritan, 
and the day of fresher thought was hardly at dawn. 

There was but one parish in all Eliot, and the 
Rev. Samuel Chandler was called to it as the 
colleague of the Rev. Mr. Spring. He fell in 
love with Lydia Spring, and married her; and, as 
the years increased, one of his own daughters (Mary 



4 6 

Ann) married Dr. Emery, the town physician, and 
another (Hannah Lee) married a well-to-do farmer, 
Waldron Shapleigh, and so the man and his family 
became as much a thread of Eliot life as the ledges 
were a portion of its physical make-up. He and 
his were a parish necessity. 

Parson Chandler's zeal equalled the strength of 
muscle and brain. He was a miracle. Not one 
pulpit man to-day in ten thousand could do the 
work this minister of Eliot did ninety years ago. 
He began domestic life when kitchen gardens were 
a novelty, and the cultivation of berries and fruits 
a visionary scheme. But the parson took in at a 
glance the usefulness and family comfort of well- 
tilled soil, early and later fruits, berries and 
grafted trees. He inspired the parish with these 
things, and set a proper example. He donned a 
calico .wrapper, open in front and tied at the back, 
that the strings might not interfere with spade and 
hoe handle; and his garden was a perfection. Two 
market women earned the summer's bread and but- 
ter by taking the products of it across the Piscata- 
qua to Portsmouth as retailers of the vegetables. 
This garden patch in the rear of the parsonage 
stimulated the town till kitchen gardens were the 
pride of the families. 

Mr. Chandler preached three sermons on Lord's 
Days. Mornings and afternoons he discoursed in 
the great old meeting-house. At the noon inter- 
mission the people went to the parsonage to warm 
themselves, if it were winter; and Mr. Chandler 



47 

read papers or books to them during the hour. 
The colored Hitty kept the three fires aglow, and 
the minister stood in the hall while the people 
listened and ate a pocket luncheon. 

Mrs. Chandler, with wifely solicitude, would 
say, " Husband, let me give you a plate of refresh- 
ments? " "No, Lyddy, no" ; and he would con- 
tinue the reading till the afternoon bell. Then he 
gathered his cloak around him, and all the saints 
followed him to the sanctuary and the second ser- 
mon. In the evening he preached his third ser- 
mon in any dwelling-house to which he was spe- 
cially invited; and sometimes it would be a mile 
away from his home. 

Besides his really four services every Lord's 
Day, he was the week-day schoolmaster. He did 
not, like Richard Shapleigh, burn his rods. He 
had a firm conviction that a spared rod developed 
inevitably a spoiled child. His voice corresponded 
with his rod of correction, for it was the scholar's 
terror. One of his pupils, now living, says he 
always spoke with such power that the tones jarred 
the school-room benches. 

Of his disciplinary methods, a few fascinating 
reminiscences linger in the mind of Olive Shap- 
leigh's sister, the dear aunt Isabel, the twain 
going to these schools hand in hand; and Hannah 
Lee Chandler was the dearest of school-mates and 
lifelong friend of our nonogenarian, who, almost 
alone, can now remember these tales. 

One man-grown youth was quite rude one day, 



4 8 



as overgrown lads are apt to be; and the clerical 
pedagogue commanded him to stand in the floor, 
while he sent for a birch. Levi watched his 
chance, and started for the door; but the dominie 
was more alert than the refractory pupil, and seized 
him by the arm. The youth turned instantly, and 
gripped the master's neck. "Do you collar me?" 
said the stentorian parson; and, shaking him off, 
he laid him quick as a breath face downwards on 
the floor, and, not waiting for the expected rod, 
he seized a ferule, and administered a punishment 
which so mortified the youth that he never entered 
the school door again. He spared not the rod, but 
he lost his child just the same. When the oldest 
class in the " Columbian Orator " was upon the 
floor one day, a restless, nervous boy exhausted 
both the patience and power of moral suasion; and 
the master sent him out for a stick of the propor- 
tion he would willingly have applied to his back. 
The lad speedily returned with a back log upon his 
shoulder, so very solid that it required his full 
strength to sustain it. "'Very well," said Parson 
Chandler, with the utmost serenity, "you may hold 
it till I find ready opportunity to apply it." The 
joke had turned upon the boy, and muscle and bone 
paid a dear penalty. Class after class recited, till 
the last was dismissed, and the session closed. 
Then the subdued lad was allowed to put the log 
on the fire-dogs; and, listening to reason, he gave 
his master no more trouble for the winter. These 
w.re the days when the Shapleighs and the Tobeys 



49 

were growing up, and gathering gradually the 
knowledge and the experience which made life 
more than gold. Richard and Olive were both 
teachers in later years ; and, when children of their 
own gathered about them, these old school-day 
memories were amon^ the reminiscences which 
could never be too often told. 

Parson Chandler died suddenly. He had been 
at work in the kitchen garden, and hastily left his 
work to visit the sick. On the way, he gathered 
and ate berries, which did not assimilate kindly with 
the system over-tired and heated by his toil. A 
sudden illness followed, and Death came with quick 
pace. The Portsmouth minister came over to pre- 
pare his soul. "You are very sick, Mr. Chandler," 
said he. "Sick unto death," was the response of 
the voice that faltered not even in death. Hun- 
dreds gathered at his funeral ; and his name is 
green to-day, though his congregation and his 
pupils are all among the departed, and in that land 
which is but dimly known. 



V. 

FATHERLESS. 

THERE is a special circumstance in every 
young history which, apparently, determines 
the lifelong character and career. The heaven or 
the hell develops from that hour the positive good 
or the drift unto failure. 

The decisive day of Hannah Shapleigh's young 
life was never forgotten by herself or her acquaint- 
ances. It was recognized as a day of God. Her 
feet were upon the threshold of womanhood. 
There came a shock which changed the entire plan 
and anticipations of life. The father, loved by 
her with intensity, honored, as we have already 
seen, as few men are by the community, most 
unexpectedly came down to the river we call 
death. He paused a moment on the shore, long 
enough to give his advices and wishes to her who 
had been wife and comfort and blessing, gathered 
his children to his bedside in benediction, "I 
shall leave you well provided," he said, with 
thoughtful, thankful voice, and with gratitude that 
the heavenly Father, though calling him in his 
prime, had given him success in the accumulation 
and investment of that which would be the bread of 
the fatherless and the widow. 



5i 

He spoke to his then eldest and favorite child, 
Hannah, of her relish for books, and gave her of 
his wisdom in regard to her future. He advised 
a course of study at an academy, and then the use 
of her acquirements as teacher, if that should be 
her choice. The girl of seventeen, overwhelmed 
by the inevitable separation, gave her father her 
unbreakable covenant to make the most of life. 
So closed he his eyes; and the once strong arms 
were forever crossed on his breast, and over the 
breathless body was stretched the snowy sheet of 
death, — the mountains of death as the plaintive 
pen of Elisabeth Akers records the death-room : — 

" First is the pallid, smileless face, 

Turned forever away from tears ; 
Then two pale hands, which will keep their place 

Folded from labor through all the years ; 
Then the knees, which will never bow, 

Never bend or obey again; 
And then the motionless feet, which now 

Are done with walking in sun and rain, — 
These are the mountains ; and over all 

Sinks and settles the winding-sheet, 
Following sharply the rise and fall 

From the pallid face to the quiet feet." 

No wonder with these appointments there was an 
awe and chill in the chamber of death fifty years 
ago. And all that house had been sanctified by 
the holiest Presence. Is not Death the usher into 
unlimited expanse and beauty of life to the soul 
that has the outreach and desire for life and love? 



Mrs. Farmer, a score of years after that day of 
dying, wrote : — 

" 1863. May day. — I cannot for a moment doubt 
that God has given his angels charge concerning 
me. It may be the blessed father who cared for 
me so tenderly through all the helpless years of 
childhood, and whose heart clung to me all the 
more tenderly as his dear ones were taken from 
him, who went down to the grave triumphing over 
death as only a faithful soldier of the cross can. 
Oh, such songs of rejoicing as went up from that 
bed of suffering it has never been mine to hear 
again! He was not only sweetly resigned, but 
gloriously happy. Almost the last of his words 
was a reply to a dear friend, 'Is the grave dark? ' 
He opened his beautiful hazel eyes with a look of 
most perfect astonishment. w Dark? No: how can 
it be dark? My blessed Saviour goes with me.' ' 

In another letter Mrs. Farmer expresses the in- 
terest of that passing away and her own unceasing 
love : — 

" It was a bright and beautiful October morning 
when my dear father's arms lost their hold upon my 
neck, and his soul went up to our Father and our 
God. Such a song of triumph I never heard before 
or since from dying lips. His eyes closed on my 
face to open on the Saviour's, to see him as he is. 
I do not wish him back. I thank God that he is 
in heaven, but I love him with a love Death never 
quenched. I miss him even now, — miss his 
smiles, his words, his kiss at morning, noon, and 



53 

night, — the kiss he gave to us all for so many 
years. I shall see his dear face in glory, but one 
must be near to God to enter readily upon the 
state he reached and the home to which he so joy- 
fully went." 

The room in which Richard Shapleigh was lying 
in death, and which to the family was the vestibule 
of eternity, had been in his life and health his own 
special apartment of choice and business, and the 
brightest room of the house because of his sunshine. 
Many and many an hour had he sat at his books, 
papers, and studies; and within the desk against 
the wall were the accounts — minutely, methodi- 
cally, unerringly written — of all his transactions 
and arrangements. "These books," said he to his 
wife, "will be to you the distinct statement of all 
financial affairs; and their signatures will be equiv- 
alent to, and as reliable as, the notes of the bank." 
But into that very room, hushed and solemn with 
the presence of the dead, came sin-inspired feet 
and hands. They minded not the sheeted face or 
the wickedness of the deed. Blackness of night 
and heart enshrouded. Every book, paper, receipt, 
signature, memorandum, was clutched : the desk 
was left empty ! When the widow, after the 
burial, lifted the cover to obtain a practical knowl- 
edge of the estate which was to yield to her the 
daily bread, her eye fell upon nothingness. She 
had already faced the painful fact of widowhood: 
now she was appalled with the sudden discovery 
of penury. She was, indeed, "a widow and deso- 



54 

late.'' The surreptitious removal of the contents 
of that cabinet to this hour remains a mystery. In 
her double bereavement and surprise, the bewil- 
dered mother sought Hannah and revealed the loss. 
The two consulted the legal counsellor; but, when 
the days lengthened into weeks, and when her de- 
voted Hannah was stricken with grief and disease 
and brought to the very verge of death, and when 
followed the thousand distractions which so natu- 
rally result from deathly breakings up, that dearest 
of mothers leaned upon her God, and let the ques- 
tion stare her in the face, "Where is the daily 
bread to be found?" Mrs. Farmer, in the letter 
to Mrs. Souther from which quotations have already 
been made, gave the story of these days of tempest, 
and the utter annihilation of the singular and 
sweeping ambitions of her girlhood. The death 
of the sire and the fever which ate up the very 
powers of her youth became to her the very steps 
into the heaven life. At the time they were but 
agonies and despairs. There is only a step be- 
tween death and life. We will give her own pen : — 
" Had the one wish of my soul been gratified and 
the mind received all the nourishment it craved, 
it would have been, I fear, at the expense of the 
heart's education. There was a time when ambi- 
tion was the vital spark of my being. When a 
child, I turned my eyes to the laurels won by 
heroes, and my resolve was taken to reach the 
highest round of the ladder. It was the one great 
desire of my young life to be a teacher. God for- 



55 

give me! I humbly pray. What a teacher I should 
have made ! If my precious father had been spared, 
my wish would have been gratified. Let me tell 
you my life as associated with him: Nature lav- 
ished her gifts freely upon his mind and person, 
and from him I received that stimulus which came 
near to costing my life. His education was only 
begun with his school-days under Parson Chandler. 
His life motto was 'Excelsior'; and, when at last 
he consecrated himself to the noble task of teach- 
ing, he brought to the work a sanctified heart and 
a mind well stored with all that was needful for 
him to impart. He proved to his generation what 
a self-made man can do. While he taught others 
successfully, he was himself a scholar. His mind, 
grasping and hungry, was always reaching for new 
treasures. Every drop of his blood was true and 
loyal, and eternity only will reveal the good he 
accomplished in a life that stretched but a little 
beyond twoscore years. He gave his heart to God 
in his early youth, and the noble powers which 
proved a help and blessing were thereby held in 
consecration to the God of his fathers. My every 
wish would have been gratified, had he lived longer; 
for all my cravings were bounded by him. Three 
years before his death I lost by consumption my 
two elder sisters, with only one month's difference 
in their departures. From that time my father's 
blighted loves and hopes centred in me. My mind, 
eager for knowledge, was ready to follow him. 
But the poor, little, frail body was unequal to the 



56 

demands, and brain fever was the consequence of 
disobedience to Nature's limits. Then I lost the 
only beauty with which God ever endowed me, — 
my beautiful hair. How proud I had been of it! 
how much time I had spent in arranging it! But 
my head was shaved in the beginning of my fever, 
for the doctor said it would be impossible for me 
to live if the hair were retained. I presume he 
was right, for such a wealth of hair one rarely sees. 
It was more than a yard long. To curl it, I only 
needed to twine it about my finger. I never used 
even w T ater upon it, it was so glossy and beautiful. 
My vanity was satisfied. What did I care if my 
face was thin and pale, as long as my hair was 
always pronounced l beautiful ' ? The raven's 
wing was not blacker; and now I think my heart 
was its only rival in blackness! " 

Mrs. Farmer's cousin, Mrs. Fannie Heywood, of 
Boston, remembers that the friends who were about 
the sick-bed told of the return of consciousness and 
the discovery of the loss of the tresses which had 
gratified the natural and, doubtless, the reasonable 
pride of the young life. Putting her weak hands 
to her head and discovering the scissors-ly change, 
with the piteousness of a bruised dove, the convales- 
cent said "Why did you not cut off my head as 
well?" But even then, in that sick-room, and in 
the grip of a wasteful and violent disease, her girl 
wisdom came to her help; and she accepted the 
inevitable. There was a super-abounding natural 
religiousness she had not then learned to under- 



57 

stand, which gave her entire life the lean to the 
side of God and wisdom. If the surface ' life 
were for a time in her youth rebellious, there was 
also a strong sub-consciousness of the Divine Hand; 
and this gave her a peculiar silence when she found 
that plans and purposes were divine, though they 
differed from her own human. The letter from 
which we are drawing this story of a part of her 
young life continues : — 

"When my consciousness returned, I do not 
think I was thankful for my life. But, when I 
began again to realize that I had father to live for, 
and was now his eldest daughter and love, I thought 
I could endure anything, even life itself. My 
studies were again resumed, though the regular 
course at Bradford, upon which I was to enter when 
I was taken sick, was relinquished (in my mind) 
for the present. O my darling, what could a 
little, frail body like mine do, chained to an in- 
domitable spirit, but surrender to its irresistible 
force? My dear father and mother saw that my 
life was bound up in my books, and they feared to 
take them wholly from me, lest I should get dis- 
couraged. So a show of doing something was kept 
up, while really I accomplished scarcely anything. 

"When I was too feeble to go to the school-room, 
I recited to my father, and took all my outdoor 
exercise with him. This was no little part of my 
every-day duty; for, as he then understood the laws 
of health, I was obliged to observe them. It was 
no effort for me to commit and recite my lessons. 



58 

My brain could bear more than my body, and the 
one consumed the other. Thus the days passed till 
the autumn of 1840. Then came the agonizing 
suspense: the grave opened at my feet; my idol 
was shattered forever and ever. None but the 
fatherless — and but few of them — can understand 
my sorrow. Life was no longer worth holding. 
Gladly, yes, joyfully, would I have welcomed death. 
I could not bear even the sunlight. I wanted to 
darken it forever. Why should the sun shine when 
my father was dead? My soul hated God, — my 
father's God, — who had taken my earthly all. It 
was to me mockery when the neighbors spoke of 
God as just in all his ways. And the minister told 
me of the joy of heaven when he went, of the seven 
children who had preceded him and waited to wel- 
come him. He told me of the good father did, of 
the abundant entrance there, of the crown, the harp, 
the praise of God and the Lamb. I heard every 
word he said, and then, looking him full in the 
face, asked, 'Mr. Adams, are you glad that my 
father is dead? ' Somebody who has been afflicted 
said that life dies out of us when there is nothing 
for which we can wait or look. This was true in 
my own case. I was laid speedily upon my bed, 
sick of fever, and for six long weeks never spoke a 
rational word. In my delirium I called only for 
my father, and asked only for water, which in that 
day, strangely enough, was never given to the sick. 
The New Year, 1841, found me creeping slowly 
back to life, — a wreck. My ambition was buried 



59 

in the grave of my father. A fixed despair took 
possession of me. Life became aimless. In my 
self-engrossment others were forgotten. Days and 
nights alike I brooded over my grief. At last it 
seemed as if life or reason would go under to this 
mental agony. Earth afforded no solace, and my 
heart was too full of hatred to God to desire heaven. 
One night — and I shall never forget it — I was 
longing to die, and the thought came like an arrow 
from a quiver, 'If you die, you would not meet your 
father: you are not fitted for his glorious home.' 
O my darling, can you think of one's condition 
without hope ? Ah, the long suffering of God ! 
With such winning sweetness he entreated, ''Come 
to me : I will rest yoti ! ' ' 

This is a sorrowful page in the life of a girl of 
seventeen years. It was the way of God with her. 
It was only through death that she could reach life. 
Mrs. Heywood remembers that, in conversation 
with Mrs. Farmer, she unfolded an hour of her 
happy girl days before a ripple had disturbed her 
abounding ambitions. The narrative was in this 
wise: She went to Sunset Hill, in Eliot, when she 
was visiting the dear grandmother Tobey. Gazing 
from that delightful elevation on the expanse above 
and around, there came to her undisciplined ambi- 
tion the thought that there was no height she could 
not reach and no attainment to which she might not 
aspire. This girl outlook and outreach had much 
to strengthen and encourage it till the broken home 
circle crushed and chilled the fancies of an eager 



6o 



and poetic brain. Shall we say that the ambition 
was chilled? Was it not divinely modified and its 
true channel developed? In later years, as she 
recalled the hour at Sunset Hill, she said, "Fool- 
ish little child that I was to allow an unbounded 
thought!" But a child's foolishness is often un- 
developed wisdom. Nothing but Mrs. Farmer's 
sense of possibility enabled her to work as she did 
every day in labors of love, and carried her through 
the eventual Soldiers' Fair and the upbuilding of 
the beautiful "Summer Rest," — the memorial 
Rosemary. In anticipation of that hour in Mrs. 
Farmer's life when the night of despair was ex- 
changed for the everlasting day of joy, we insert a 
fragment of her pen, written probably at this 
date : — 

GOD'S NAY. 

How strange that God should follow my steps, 

Keeping me low in his sight, 
When I wanted to choose my own life-work, 

And have shown such a spirit of fight ! 

He held my hand, and led me along, 
While he tenderly whispered, " Nay." 

How glad he must be that I've yielded at last, 
And shown him my choice to obey ! 

Wherever he leads, I follow him now 

With a simple, childlike trust. 
He knows that I do it for love of him, 

And not because I must. 

I may not need to be kept in his school, 

Since I'm learning at last to be still : 
He knoweth best, and is training me now 

For some place that he wants me to till. 



6i 



My daily prayer is for grace and strength 

To come from this fiery test, 
With my armor burnished and buckled on, 

And God will take care of the rest. 

He has been so tender and good to me, 

I long in some way to show 
My love for him, and how thankful I am 

That he should have followed me so, — 

Followed me till I kissed the hand 
That was holding the chastening rod. 

No other way would have led me home 
Or have kept me close to God. 



VI. 



NEWNESS OF LIFE. 



PAUL says that even* baptism into death is the 
initial of a walk in newness of life: and 
never did a young creature have a deeper dying to 
all that made life glad than Hannah Shapleigh in 
the latest weeks of her home life in Great Falls. 
That it terminated in the resurrection of powers 
which she had never before discerned, and of ener- 
gies which were like wings of the morning, she 
never failed to testify. The poet Isaiah, had he 
seen distinctively and propheticallv her very need, 
could not have expressed her advancing steps more 
vitally. — 

•• Then shall thy light break forth as the morning; 
Thy health shall spring forth speedily. 
Thy righteousness shall go before thee. 
The glory of the Lord shall gather thee up."' 

And the glad new dayspring was ushered in on this 
wise, as her own dear words tell it : — 

"My cousin. Rev. N. D. Adams, was the Meth- 
odist preacher at Rye. He visited us. and sug- 
gested the benefit of a change for me. He carried 
me. therefore, to the parsonage for a visit. He did 



63 

not ask about my spiritual state; he did not know 
of the rebellion, — the hate I felt to God. On 
Sunday I was at his church. To his surprise, and 
the surprise of the whole congregation and myself, 
I arose at the end of the afternoon sermon, and told 
the people of my mental sufferings. I spoke of 
my years of sunshine, and then the dashing of the 
cup and the midnight stupor and blackness that 
was over my life. I confessed that I did not love 
God, and could not love him, for he had dealt un- 
kindly and unjustly with me, but I wanted to go 
where my father was; that I should be willing to 
spend eternity in hell if my father were there. 
How I dared to stand in God's house and thus 
unfold myself I never knew. But l Glory to God! ' 
was the voice from the pulpit, and 'Amen,' came, 
it seemed to me, from every pew. As these echoes 
of human sympathy and prayer fell upon my ears, 
they conveyed to my soul the first feeling of rest 
that I had known for months. I knew the peo- 
ple's prayers were going upward to God's heart. I 
was told later that my own eyes were the only tear- 
less ones in the congregation. Strong men wept 
like children; and, while they prayed audibly, the 
petitions were broken with sobs. My dear and 
faithful cousin came from his pulpit to the pew, 
but I was not then willing to kneel with him. O 
the struggle of my soul before its victory! A few 
days later the proud heart came into subjec- 
tion to Christ. The first ray that broke the spell 
of darkness was a sense of the forbearance of 



6 4 

Christ, then his perfect right to do what seemed 
him good; and, at last, his infinite love and com- 
passion for me — for me — melted my heart. All 
at once I lost sight of my father, and saw only 
God and his willingness to forgive. I prostrated 
myself, and offered my soul to him ; and he never 
turns away from a sincere prayer. But his terms I 
had to acknowledge and accept ; and the very mo- 
ment I was willingly obedient in the opening of my 
lips in prayer in the presence of others he spoke 
the word, ' Peace /' My heart was filled inex- 
pressibly full. I sang songs of thanksgiving. The 
assurance was mine that I was for time and eter- 
nitv his own. Long years have passed since then, 
and through all my varied life the anchor has held 
sure and steadfast. Xo power has separated me 
from the love of Christ: and I wait the hour when 
I shall reach the port, and there shall be no re- 
turning wave." 

This transition produced a wonderful change in 
her practical, every-day life. She determined that, 
for her mother's sake and for the fatherless lambs, 
the graduation at Bradford should be forever fore- 
gone ; that she would take her needle and earn the 
family bread, if she could. This decision was a 
lifelong joy and a lifelong pain; for, with her 
respect and appreciation of book culture, she always 
carried the sense of her needful sacrifice, — a sacri- 
fice made needful because of the surreptitious 
destruction of her father's papers, which prevented 
that stricken family from presenting the legal 



65 

claims. Ah! evil deeds have telling power on the 
many years of the victims, and the penalties can 
never be measured till the cups fill to the brim; 
and then the perpetrators must face the wrongs and 
their accumulations. 

The house at Eliot, saved from the unexpected 
wreck, was the chosen abode of the family. It was 
within shadow of the widow's childhood home. 
No wonder Mrs. Shapleigh desired the sheltering 
wing of her father and mother. There were per- 
haps advantages in the larger and busier Great 
Falls; but, bereft as she was, and with a group of 
little lambs at her knee, no place in all the world 
seemed so desirable as the old Eliot scenes and 
neighbors, the father's strong arm and the mother's 
wisdom. Besides, the dead husband's desire had 
always been to return to this early and beloved 
town for his declining years. The household chat- 
tels were therefore carried thither, and Eliot 
became the mother's continuous home for thirty- 
four years; and at fourscore she was carried over 
its threshold one October day into the garden, and, 
with the beautiful flowers and crimson leaves about 
her, she was laid upon the long, long pillow, — a 
home from which no stealthy midnight hand could 
rob her of any good which belonged to her, for it 
is written, " Where moth and rust doth not corrupt, 
nor thieves break through nor steal." When the 
fact of her earthly loss was first impressed upon 
her, and was weighing down her gentle and natu- 
rally loving heart, she dreamed that the books con- 



66 



taining her husband's financial statements had been 
buried with him in his coffin. The singular im- 
pression was as lasting as life. 

At Eliot, in 1841, a new life began with Hannah 
Shapleigh. Delicate, inclined as every one 
thought to an early grave, wasted by the fevers that 
had been desperate in effort to destroy her, unused 
to the limitations and confinements of toil, she 
started forth. She carried in the bag upon her arm 
her thimble, her needles, and her scissors, and at 
twenty-five cents a day the girl of eighteen brought 
as best she could her tribute to the family welfare. 
Girls of to-day would stare at the daily pittance 
of the mantua-maker of half a century ago. But 
Hannah Shapleigh neither stopped nor stared. She 
took up the self-appointed life, and joyed that 
she was the eldest, and could bear its brunt and 
burden. With the abnegation of self which became 
at length proverbial, she sewed from house to house, 
as the neighbors had need; and the days in length 
were, according to the custom of a half-century ago, 
until nine o'clock in the evening. How many 
gowns of girls and matrons she cut, basted, and 
made in those stretched out hours we do not know; 
but every seam, plait, and hem had its developing 
power, and the girl of the book became the damsel 
of the needle and the right hand of the widowed 
mother. 

God has his gates of circumstance. He opens 
them wide. Many and many look in and shrink, 
and the joy of harmony with life's designs is 



67 



missed. Others accept the situation, and become 
the women and the men who make the divine as 
well as the human impress. It can be unhesitat- 
ingly said of Hannah Shapleigh that never from the 
hour when the light of the new life broke in upon 
the darkness of her father's death did she fail to do 
as best she could the duty that came next. She 
entered the gates; and, when riper years came and 
broader experiences of maturity, society, as well as 
the years of unmurmuring pain, she not only did 
the next thing, but she mentally and heartfully 
grasped interests that but few assume, even among 
the charitable. 

Two years of Eliot life passed with |this busy 
exterior. Then gradually came the indications that 
the mother's home would be exchanged for one of 
her own, and that the oversight and effort which 
she had especially borne would be delegated to the 
younger children, who were fast outgrowing child- 
hood, and beginning to know the meaning of re- 
sponsibility. She always smiled as she recalled 
her first glimpse of her future husband, and neither 
of them ever forgot the wintry noontide when they 
beheld each other's face. It was a bitter day. 
The youth, a Dartmouth student as it afterward 
proved, whom the world was yet to acknowledge as 
the electrician whose penetration was to invent 
the fire alarm of Boston, and the man to light his 
house with the reined thunderbolt thirty years be- 
fore any other domicile was thus illuminated, — the 
man, too, who carried passengers in electric cars 



68 



across public halls 01 Dover, Portsmouth. Saco, 
Biddeford, and Portland forty years before any such 
cars ran through city streets, — came down from 
Boscawen to Portsmouth, and from thence across 
the Piscataqua and up the Eliot road afoot, in 
search of a winter school. Overcoats were not 
often worn by youths fifty and sixty years ago, and 
this youngling from Xew Hampshire had not 
donned one. His face was crimson with the stins: 
of the merciless wind. Hannah saw him from the 
window at the moment her mother was bringing a 
dish of savory soup to the table. It was before the 
days of tramps or of very much travel. With an 
impulse perfectly natural, but not seconded by a 
thought, the maid of eighteen said : " O mother, 
such a frozen-looking fellow is going by! Do let 
us ask him in, and give him some of our hot 
dinner." "Yes, child," said the mother, whose 
heart was never a shriveled one, and whose sym- 
pathies touched the wide world as well as a trav- 
eler. Out the door bounded the girl to bring the 
wayfarer in. As she reached the gate, the "ridicu- 
lousness " (as she afterwards expressed it) of such 
an invitation rushed over her; and, quicker than 
she went, she rebounded within the house. The 
young man saw the maiden ; and, when he reached 
the door of Lydia Stone, the only person in Eliot 
whom he knew, he laughingly said that a miss, 
evidently starting on an errand, received a sudden 
shock from his frozen and wayworn appearance, and 
in her scare made a sudden vanishing. He added, 



6 9 

jokingly, that she was not very unlike the girl he 
might like to marry some day; and, when the next 
forenoon in church a new voice was heard on the 
men's side of the singing seats, the surprised 
Hannah discovered that it was the shivering youth 
who almost ate of her mother's toothsome viands 
the day before, and that he had become the guest 
for the Sunday of her uncle Samuel Shapleigh, the 
eldest brother of her late father. As this uncle 
was very stern, and never deviated from his severe- 
ness, unless it was while he was listening to music, 
no doubt the young singer of the choir was making 
him a happy day of it. But neither the swain nor 
the damsel looked into their palms on that Lord's 
Day to read the destiny of years in advance, and 
neither knew then that life everlasting would only 
be long enough for the wealth of love and blessing 
that would be measured to them. It was in the win- 
ter of 1842 that Professor Farmer made this search 
for the school ; and, not succeeding, he went into 
the office of a civil engineer at Portsmouth. It is 
always and everywhere true that, if one door closes, 
another opens. In a brief time he became assist- 
ant in a private school in Portsmouth; and, while 
thus employed, the trustees of Eliot Academy 
asked him to assume the charge of their school, as 
Mr. Israel Kimball, its preceptor, had accepted 
an invitation to Dover. Like a dutiful son, young 
Farmer went first to Boscawen (now Webster), 
N.H., to see his widowed mother, and returned 
to begin school at Eliot Monday, March 1, 1843. 



The reminiscences of the journey from Boscawen 
to Eliot in 1843 will scarcely seem fact in this day 
of quick and easy transit. The young professor 
was carried in the domestic wagon to Concord; and 
then himself and trunk were committed to the 
tenderness of the lumbering stage, which made its 
daily trip to Portsmouth. 

A March storm of snow and wind piled the drifts 
so high that, when Stratham was reached on Satur- 
day noon, the driver refused to go further until 
Monday. The young teacher told him of his en- 
gagement at Eliot, but the man of the reins was 
unmoved by eloquence or necessity, and could in 
no wise help him, but he agreed to take charge of 
the trunk, and faithfully deposit it in Portsmouth 
when the journey could be accomplished. Then 
the zealous youth began the eighteen-mile walk 
from Stratham. The drifts were almost insurmount- 
able, and, when suddenly these were supplemented 
by a tremendous thunder-shower, the situation was 
not especially enviable. Drifts were changed to 
slush, and the traveler sank not infrequently to 
his knees. Long before reaching Portsmouth, he 
was wet to the skin, and, as his trunk was still 
strapped to the stage at Stratham, he had no change 
of clothing. At the Franklin House in Ports- 
mouth he wrung the water from his saturated gar- 
ments, and hung them as best he could about his 
bedroom fire. Lord's Day dawned, and still the 
garments were not dry; but, true to his Puritan 
principles and bringing up, the wet clothes were 



7! 

donned, and all clay he was at the sanctuary. By 
Monday every article was as "dry as a bone," and, 
with the elasticity of youth, the walk to Eliot was 
taken, and promptly at nine o'clock, according tu 
agreement, the term began. 

The Eliot home for the summer was with Mrs. 
Jeremiah Libbey, and the girls and boys were in 
the various stages of mental development which 
children were likely to reach who worked much of 
the time with father on the farm, and who thought 
that "reading, writing, and ciphering to the rule 
of three " made up the curriculum needful to any 
ordinary life. And, indeed, it did serve our sires 
in their daily transactions and necessary wisdom. 
If they lacked, the 'squire and parson gave the need- 
ful information. As might be expected, the social 
nature of the teacher, his natural fondness and skill 
in music, the quickness and sparkle of his repartee, 
speedily gave him open doors in the town, but it 
was neither of these that gave him an introduction 
to the Shapleigh home. That door opened more 
curiously. It was at this date that mesmerism, 
phrenology, and kindred topics were having special 
and much doubtful discussion. The teacher had 
examined these subjects, and discussed them 
freely, and, when Hannah Shapleigh was prostrate 
upon her pillow with an aching tooth, a very swol- 
len face, and all the accumulated neuralgic accom- 
paniments, Lydia Stone recommended a mesmeric 
call from the experimenting and investigating peda- 
gogue. The spirited Hannah resented the solici- 



72 

tation, and absolutely revolted; but Lydia, an 
earnest apostle of the new phase of bringing relief, 
was importunate, and finally the call was permitted, 
— the first call upon her who was to be the 
unclouded sunshine of the next forty-eight years 
of his marked and ingenious life. In after days 
he would playfully tell her that he not only mes- 
merically soothed the facial muscles, but ventured 
his skill in the new and mystical science of phre- 
nology, and settled it in his own mind that, if the 
cranium told the truth, the invalid had qualities 
that would not be very unlikely in a wife. And 
so the friendship began. 

A little later the young people clamored for an 
evening drawing school, and Hannah attended, 
and, before its sessions were ended, it was discov- 
ered, perhaps intuitively understood, that the 
teacher showed more attention to Hannah than to 
the rest. 

At the beginning of the second academic term 
Mr. Farmer's engagement as teacher was renewed 
by the trustees, and his home was in the family of 
Mrs. Shapleigh, but, when this term ended, he 
became the principal of the Belknap School in 
Dover, and later of another school in the same city. 
As winter came on, the snowy roads made his 
weekly walks to Eliot severe and toilsome journeys, 
especially as he carried his melodeon under his 
arm. His natural thought was, "Why not estab- 
lish a little home of my own in Dover?'' But the 
sagacious Hannah did not respond. She had an- 



73 

other and unexpected proposal of her own. She 
did not say so in words, but she determined in her 
heart that she would never marry, not even for 
love's sake, till she had seen her future husband 
in his own early home, and made quiet observations 
of his demeanor to his mother and sisters. There- 
fore, she proposed that they visit Boscawen, — a 
proposition she had a right to make, as a sister of 
her intended husband had already visited her as the 
representative of the family. She knew that a life- 
long happiness was at stake, and that love was not 
always an assurance of blessedness. Sometimes 
"the saddest of all is loving." In later years, as 
she told of her advent in Boscawen, and her intro- 
duction to her husband's mother and the household, 
she smiled at the bashfulness that dreaded to ask 
for a heavier blanket for the old-fashioned company 
bed in the wintry nights of the New Hampshire 
hills. But the welcome to that home was all her 
heart could ask. She never forgot it : that would 
have been impossible. When that gracious home 
of her Moses was broken forever, she recalled the 
season of delight with many tears: — 

"How little you thought, when you sent me the 
willow blossoms, how many dear memories are to 
be stirred with the coming of this spring! I have 
been whispering all winter, "When spring comes, 
the dear old home at Boscawen will be ours no 
more.' That precious hearthstone where my be- 
loved Moses first opened his baby eyes to the light 
of day, that open door into which he took the 



74 

chosen of his heart before the vows were breathed 
which made them one before God and man, must 
now pass into the hands of strangers. That blessed 
home where he led a timid, blushing girl up to his 
dear mother, and said, 'Room in your heart, mother 
dear, room for her, close by my side? ' How the 
tender arms of that mother folded around us both, 
and she said, 'Thank God for another daughter! ' 
More than twenty years have passed since then, yet 
there has always been a welcome for us there. But 
the dear Jennie Little writes us to-night: 'There 
is to be an auction in the old home, and it goes 
from us all forever. Come up once more, and see 
where dear mother lived so many years.' So you 
see we shall soon have only the graves left us, and 
even them in the care of strangers." 

The result of the first visit to Boscawen was that 
Mother Farmer fell in love with Hannah, and not 
only gave her cordial consent to the marriage, but 
urged its speediness for her Moses' sake. 

Professor Farmer remembered a local adage, " If 
you wish to secure your girl, carry her to see 
the Shakers." He practically experimented upon 
it by taking her in the old-time chaise to the 
curious settlement not far from Boscawen. And a 
delightful memory floats back of a ride to North- 
field, where his uncle Joseph Gerrish resided, and 
where also they met the loved "Mattie," afterwards 
Mrs. Baker, a lifelong friend and correspondent of 
Mrs. Farmer, and one of the cherished company 
who gathered finally about the burial casket, to 



75 

gaze on the face transfigured into the beauty and 
image of the heavenly. 

Those early friendships were the choice gems to 
Mrs. Farmer, and one of the tender comforts that 
came to her family when she went away forever was 
the kindly memories of the people who knew her 
in her girlhood, and who had never ceased to hold 
her name and to watch with interest the labors of 
her love and blessing. "We have nothing to 
remember but that which is good and pleasant," 
said a dear old lady who had hardly seen Mrs. Far- 
mer from the days when they had played together 
at Blackberry Hill. Nearly twenty-five years ago 
Mrs. Farmer, in writing to one who was most sis- 
terly to her, said, " There are three persons that I 
pray God I may see on the occasion, if my life is 
spared, — Mrs. Pray, Mrs. Baker, and Mrs. Brown. 
I have loved Martha Baker ever since I was fourteen 
years old ; and not many years later you, Charlotte, 
and Miss Furber came knocking at the door of my 
heart, and, when you were once admitted, it was to 
go no more out forever." Again she writes to 
Mrs. Pray: "If I never heard from you again in 
this world, I should not for a moment believe that 
your love for me was changed or that you could 
ever forget me. There is no grave in my own heart 
where a broken friendship lies buried. If I love 
once, it is for time and eternity. If I could sit 
down by your side, I could tell you things that can 
never be put upon paper, but God knows there is 
no change in my love for you, that I hold you in 



76 

my heart as one beloved rarely holds another, that, 
while I live, you will never be without one sin- 
cere, loving friend." 

These earthly ties increased and strengthened, 
and, when the home began in Dover, the pillar of 
it was the never-flagging affection which ripened 
more and more, and made it the attractive place for 
old and young, rich and poor, bond and free, as 
long as she had voice to welcome. A few days 
before her transition she stood at the top of the 
stairs in her Eliot cottage, and, spreading her arms 
wide to welcome a visitor, said to her, "If I go 
home before you do, Annie Caldwell, you will find 
me at the top of the stairs waiting to welcome you." 
Surely, we believe it, — we who have so many times 
had the welcome she only could give to her home 
below. 



VII. 



HEART AND HOME. 



THE wedding was at Eliot on Christmas even- 
ing, 1844. Few girls have had a truer sense 
of the weal or woe that comes with bridal pledges, 
but Hannah Shapleigh did not burden her guests 
with her sense of the responsibilities she assumed. 
Therefore, that Christmas evening was bright with 
the wit and sparkle of the clever company of wit- 
nesses. If she opened not her heart to friends, she 
"went and told Jesus" all the same. Tenderly 
did she write of it a quarter of a century later to 
one on the eve of a similar occasion: — 

"I was just as sure, when I rose from my knees, 
Dec. 25, 1844, with the dear hand of Moses clasped 
in mine, of the happiness we have experienced as I 
am to-night. The bridal party was in the parlor. 
Bridesmaid and groomsman were waiting; but we, 
who were so soon to be made one, could not present 
ourselves before the marriage altar until we had 
once again offered ourselves anew to Him who 
instituted this, the holiest of ties. I felt then as 
now that God accepted and smiled upon the union 
of hands where hearts were already united, and that 
his blessing would go with us, crowning all our 



78 

days with a glory that has grown in brightness from 
year to year, and will till Ave pass on." 

It is not strange that the bride entered her 
mother's parlor that Christmas evening with the 
full assurance of a life of wedded joy, if "environ- 
ments" mean anything, for her husband's antece- 
dents through generations touched the best Puritan 
blood. His grandmother Farmer was a Russell, a 
lineal descendant of Lord William Russell, whose 
pathetic execution in the tower of London is a page 
of history, and whose godly wife, the Lady Rachel, 
was an honor to the faith and integrity of a 
Christly life. His mother (Sally Gerrish) de- 
cended from Colonel Moses and Jane (Sewell) 
Gerrish, married in 1677, the said Jane being a 
sister of the quaint Judge Sewell, whose "Diaries" 
are like unto the Scripture Chronicles. The an- 
cient portrait in oil of Colonel Moses hangs, a 
choice relic, on Professor Farmer's library walls. 
The grandmother of Sally (Gerrish) was Joanna 
(Hale) Gerrish, an aunt of Nathan Hale, the heroic 
and youthful spy of the Revolution, and the woman 
whose faith touched God in the abounding prayer 
that to every descendant God's saving grace should 
come. That grandmother's prayer has been a most 
precious legacy, tingeing the very blood of the 
legatees. 

The clergyman before whom the vows were 
spoken, the Rev. Josiah B. Clark, was the Eliot 
pastor. Forty-seven years after that wedding night 
he still lives; and, when this venerated man wrote 



79 

an opening address for Rosemary in 1888, he made 
personal allusions to this twain whom he made one 
in 1844. His words are apt here: — ■ 

" I knew Moses and Hannah Farmer when they 
were entering mature life. The gentleman at 
about twenty, a pure, honest, amiable youth, came 
into our family at Eliot as a teacher, with the privi- 
lege of feeling and acting as at home. No one saw 
in him any word or act out of propriety. I think 
he was not a professor of religion, but evidently he 
had been trained in its school. 

"The lady was a specimen of unqualified and 
unequaled kindness. The only objection I ever 
saw in her character was pure loveliness without 
consciousness of it. 

" Neither of them was brought into the world in 
affluence. They began life in weakness. They 
toiled hard for success, and in much discouragement 
and infirmity. They passed through the trying 
ordeal of affliction, and, what is the best of it, they 
neither murmured nor repined. Yea, they kissed 
the Hand that smote them, and fixed their hearts 
with sincere purpose to enrich God's world by deeds 
of kindness, and especially to enrich the poor by 
proving that 'it is more blessed to give than to 
receive.' " 

This was the good man who gave the benedictions 
of the wedding evening, and his voice of fraternal 
wisdom and grace was always remembered and 
loved. 

In 1844 wedding tours were not a part of the 



8o 



prescribed programme of new life and new homes, 
and therefore the young couple simply rode out to 
Dover, and in Fifth Street, the house of William 
Robinson, the first home was established, and for 
three happy years it was to them an earthly para- 
dise, — we may rightly say, the beginning of their 
paradise, for every year added to the strength and 
comfort of their united hearts. The increase of 
home joy Mrs. Farmer expressed: "There is some- 
thing so holy and precious in the daily communion 
of husband and wife I often feel that the land to 
which we are going can have for me no purer joy 
than I have known in this sanctified relation." 
And this sense of holiness as well as happiness in 
domestic life and relations led her to say again: 
"Woman is the presiding angel of the home. Her 
unseen influence there is more than all the pulpits of 
the land." 

This quiet and satisfied love did not permit her 
to leave mother's heart and mother's home without 
a throb which was well-nigh to physical pain. 
"The day I left my mother's house," she said, "was 
the saddest of my whole life. Yet the step was my 
own calm choice; and, if ever I thanked God for 
anything, it was for that day of all days when he 
gave me the husband of my love and blessing." 

It was the sisters of Professor Farmer, Sarah and 
Jane, and his only brother, John, who made the 
Dover house a kindly cheer for the new-comers. 
"They were there a week before our marriage," 
wrote Mrs. Farmer, "and only came to Eliot a few 



hours before the ceremony; and, when husband and 
I reached Dover, they had preceded us, and we 
found the table all ready for tea." She added to 
this: "I loved the dear sisters dearly, but in our 
new home it was a relief to be alone, for I believe 
I should have been afraid of my Moses to this day 
if we had always had somebody in our family. We 
had been engaged more than a year, but I had never 
ventured to call him anything but Mr. Farmer. 
What a mystery I am to myself ! " 

It was the design of Professor Farmer's pupils 
to "receive" the bride. Knowing her frailness, he 
took the responsibility of a veto. For this she was 
so grateful that she remembered it with a sense of 
relief for years ; and, when one of her acquaintances 
was to have a similar evening arranged for her by 
the young people of the parish to which she was to 
go as the wife of its pastor, Mrs. Farmer could not 
rest until she had delivered the bride, a frail child, 
from the weariness and excitement of it, and her 
advice, therefore, to the expectant husband was : — 

"When I was married, Moses was a preceptor 
in Dover. The pupils were young ladies. They 
wished to be at our house in a body when we 
arrived, and receive us. Mr. Farmer did not refer 
the matter to me, lest, if I declined, it might cause 
a withdrawal from me. Fie knew I should enjoy 
the friendship of the girls as I gradually came to 
see them. So he told them I should be tired with 
the ride and sorrowful in leaving mother and home, 
that I was physically frail, and, if I came quietly 



and rested awhile, then a reception would be very 
nice. So two weeks later they came. Now, do 
not let your wife be stared at on her arrival. 
Tell your flock that she is not strong, but is as 
good as wheat. Let them know that you do not 
consult her in the matter, but use your own judg- 
ment. They will see that you are grateful for their 
kindly design, even if you subvert it.*' 

It has been pleasant to listen to people w T ho retain 
memories of the life of the young Farmers in 
Dover. There, as everywhere, they left the indel- 
ible impression, the one of boundless heart and 
love, the other of wit and genius. Mrs. Farmer 
kept a daily memorandum of the Dover life, and 
from it can be perceived that the very beginnings 
of the home were marked with that peculiar "open- 
door" life, by which everybody had the welcome 
of disinterested love and sympathy. One of the 
family friends wrote a few years ago, " I cannot ask 
if you are without visitors, for ever since I knew 
you the Farmer home has been equivalent to a 
co7itinental hotel." Never was a truer word uttered, 
for callers and guests could not be numbered from 
1844 to the very hour when the last sorrowful and 
joyful group looked upon the beautiful repose 
which never again could be broken. The wish of 
the first birthday of Mrs. Farmer was literally ful- 
filled by the heavenly Father: — 

" March 20, 1845. I am twenty-two years old. 
When I think how long I have lived and how little 
good I have done, I am surprised. Father in 



§3 

heaven, implant within me one desire, to do some- 
thing in thy cause." 

This one desire led her to join the Dover Anti- 
slavery Society only four days after the wedding 
ride, and a few days later a transient society "to 
help the poor this winter," and again a "Benevolent 
Society"; and she went to see a dying girl, "a 
stranger to me, but I must say I loved her." 
These are the little notes of daily life. Was she 
happy in it? Yes. "With pleasure I can write 
to-day that I am a happy wife." At the return 
from a visit, she penned: "Came to my own dear 
home, the sweetest spot on this earth. But I have, 
too, a home in the heart, and that is dearer than all 
together." Her happiness never made her for- 
getful, and three days after her birthday she rode 
out to Eliot to see her mother, and jotted down, 
"If ever I was glad to see anybody in my life, it 
was that dear old lady." 

After a few months' residence in Dover her hus- 
band's duties called him away now and again, and 
her sensitiveness to gladness and sorrow she ex- 
pressed to him : — 

"O how delicate is the poise of the scale that 
holds my joy or my pain! Will the time come 
when every shadow that passes over me will not 
leave its impress? Yet life is worth more than the 
price we pay for it." 

Perhaps a truer sentiment was never expressed ; 
and yet it seems sometimes as if we gave double 
cost, so high is the required price. 



84 

As the Dover friends became more and more 
intimate with the new home, the truer became the 
friendships and the estimates. "We came to the 
conclusion," said a gentleman, "that Mr. Farmer 
could do anything." It is not strange that this 
thought prevailed, for the ingenuity of the young 
man was developing in a thousand ways. He went 
to Dover as a teacher, and he blended music with 
this, and had the ear and skill to tune the pianos of 
the few people of fifty years ago who had such an 
acquisition and joy in the house. He played the 
organ at the meeting-house, was a teacher, and an 
attractive one, in the Sunday-school; and one day, 
while calling upon Dr. Stackpole and wife, he forgot 
for a season to be sociable, being wholly absorbed 
and enveloped in mathematical observations on the 
gyrations of a top. 

At this time a new enterprise was entertained 
in the mind of this young and ingenious man. It 
was the printing of window shades. Deacon John 
Busby, of Dover, was manufacturing shades of 
linen, and Mr. Farmer could see no reason why 
shades of stamped paper could not be of equal ser- 
vice, and much cheaper. The linen shades were 
then retailing at one dollar each. Mr. Farmer's 
inventive faculty produced a new pattern and a new 
machine on which to print them, and this adventure 
on paper sold at one-fourth the price of the previous 
linen. "Two heads are better than one" (even if 
one is a genius), and an old pedler suggested that 
the paper mills of Newton Lower Falls and the ink 






ELECTRO-MAGNETIC 
ENGINE & RAIL-ROAD 



Messrs M. G. & J* F; 

f^ill exhibit on /tf^^a^^Elfeirimt at^ 



A BEArTIFSJJ. MOPEJ. «JF 




IH » 







Electro'Magniti Engine, 

To which they havea^' ' 

RAILROAD Alf 

Which will be Utrifc&a. '%&, .the, 

A variety . of- l»t e res' 

pertorjn-ed^'with R. 

Among' these a BAM of ¥ROW> will' remain suspe 

support, in ©pposHioe? to S8»«- I-.A' W. oi;.fcR»,V3TS 

Which will defy the strength oi any TWO MEW j0%Effiv»t&i&s: halves, ■ whew 
under the influence of ELECTRICITY. § ^Jfife. oftration- oTthiv 

TELEGRAPH, 

Will be illustrated by a small model, ^jbe SUBMARINE BATTERY will b* 

THE VIBRATING MAGNETO ELECTRIC MACHINE, 

So useful in the cure of Chronic Diseases will tic introduced, and a ' 

•*£ goi^b Mmvm 

will be placed in a dish of water, which any pers« 

when property connected with the Machioe. DS-The Lectafo smd ExpeTittien 



KM'fB 7will.be- 

BjfeVol 



rw^out^ble 



sou may have who will take it out 



U. f ^ :l'll| »rtS>! 



Doors open at 7 1-2. Lecture t^ill Commence at 3 o'clock. 



85 

works of Boston be patronized, and materials be 
thus obtained at first cost. The young man fol- 
lowed the old man's suggestion, and the result was 
that forty thousand curtains were printed and sold; 
and the manufacturers received fifty per cent. 

While the hands were busy with the mechanical 
work of the curtains, the brain was developing an 
electro-magnetic motor in 1845. So delightfully 
absorbing was this interest that the curtain trade 
and all the apparatus went over to another; and 
heart and mind were engrossed in the revelations of 
power which this motor would give to man. But it 
was 1845-46, and the young electrician, as well as 
his interested and devoted young wife, had to learn 
the simple, veritable fact which Daniel, the seer, 
received ages before, that certain truths must be 
" sealed up till the time of the end." The patient 
young man waited till his hair was grizzled to see 
his prophetic gleams fulfilled. But the year 
1846-47 will have its scientific as well as historic 
interest, for during the year his electric engine and 
car were made, and tracks were laid in the old City 
Hall at Dover, and in the public halls also of Great 
Falls, Saco, and Portland, and at exhibitions chil- 
dren rode in this electric car across the halls of 
these cities of New Hampshire and Maine. 

Mr. Farmer remembers that F. O. J. Smith was 
erecting telegraphs at that date, and found that 
his wires stretched like molasses candy, and Mr. 
Farmer bought three hundred yards of these con- 
demned wires for his engine. 



86 



The exhibition of this electrical locomotion, 
though a novelty, was not a mint to its inventor. 
He had called his brother, John P. Farmer, to his 
financial help as well as to his mechanical labors, 
and the two had worked busily at the paper cur- 
tains, while at the same time the brain was devel- 
oping the engine. But, when the experiment was 
tested before the public, the curiosity of the popu- 
lace was not sufficiently born to furnish the inven- 
tor's household with bread. It was nicer in 1847 
to have a paper curtain at the window than to ride 
in an electric car, and the two young men discov- 
ered that these public exhibitions had depleted 
their pockets, and that fifty dollars were needed to 
balance accounts. Dr. Stackpole, of Dover, — let 
his name be praised! — gave the adventurers a tem- 
porary relief by sending to them at Portland (the 
last place of exhibit) a check for the needed 
amount. Poor Bronson Alcott came back from his 
philosophic lecture tour at the West with a some- 
what brighter plumage. He had one solitary dollar 
to show to his patient and loving wife, who had 
never ceased to believe in him. And Hannah Far- 
mer had a no less open-arm reception for the "my 
Moses," who was to her the man who would one day 
be recognized as possessing the unmistakable intui- 
tion which read the wisdom of God in the light- 
ning's flash, whether it were in the cloud above or 
condensed in wires below. She never mistook her 
husband. As memories float back, the husband in 
his peculiar tongue says, "We did not make a mil- 



87 

lion and a half a minute, but afterwards I repaid 
all those who were entangled with me in the finan- 
cial embarrassments of those Dover experiments." 

One laughable incident of these exhibits has 
been remembered, perhaps by all who were present. 
A five-dollar gold piece was deposited in a jar of 
charged water, and it was to belong to the person 
who could remove it with his hand. A man with 
much assurance went to the dish, and lifted the 
coin without let or hindrance. The astonished 
exhibitor began to investigate, and discovered that 
the bundle of wires had been left out of the coil. 
This was explained to the audience, and the man 
was promised another golden coin if he would 
replace the one he had removed. "No," said he. 
The audience took it up, and offered another and 
yet another, until eighty dollars were pledged. 
Then the man, with a somewhat tremulous voice, 
said, "No, it would hurt me more than a month's 
work" ; and he bore away the gold unshocked. 

These are some of the interests that came to the 
first happy fireside at Dover, but they were not all. 
Other incidents sometimes had divine teachings, 
even if they were very simple. Mrs. Farmer 
never forgot the little cousin Fannie (now Mrs. 
Heywood), not three years old, who sat at her 
table, and, looking at the cup of tea before her, 
asked if she could have more when that was gone. 
She was assured that all she wished could be sup- 
plied. "Because,"- she prattled on, "if I cannot 
have more, I wish to eat this with a spoon, and, if 



88 



I can have more, I want to drink it right down.'" 
Perhaps older children take God's supplies by the 
spoonful, when he so gladly and soulfully would 
afford overflowing draughts from the cup. 

Among the family papers is the first letter writ- 
ten by Mrs. Farmer to her husband, during one of 
his absences. It is dated Feb. 4, 1845, an d 
directed to Portland, Me. She had just received 
one from him, and playfully tells him that anybody 
would think he had a number of wives, as he called 
her "the dearest." Then, more seriously, she 
says: "A letter from my own blessed husband. 
How sweet to say my own! Others may call you 
Gerrish and brother and friend; but I, the favored 
one, can say husband. How sweet the name! 
There is none dearer." In another letter she tells 
her chosen companion: "The ties are strong now 
by which I am earth-bound, and I pray for life, 
that I may gladden our home nest for thee, my 
chosen one, where you may ever come with the 
sweet assurance that the White Bird's wings are 
folded, waiting the return of her mate." 

Those early Dover days, — glad ones were they, 
and free, with perhaps never even an anticipation of 
the time to come when her pen should falter as it 
wrote: "My blessed husband, I will not trouble 
you to-day with a long letter. My heart is so sad 
that I cannot think of a time when it was glad and 
free. Was it, Love, when I gave it into your keep- 
ing? How faithful you have been to the sacred 
trust our Father knows. If no other feeling: is in 



my heart, I am conscious of thankfulness for your 
love and your care of me since the glad day that 
made me your wife." 

When ten years were gone since the bridal hour, 
and she was spending a Lord's Day in the early 
and loved home at Great Falls, she wrote: "I 
cannot bear to be parted from you. Each day 
seems a loss irreparable. I believe I cannot en- 
dure the separations as well as I could ten years 
ago, — the year we first lived and loved together. 
I cannot believe that I love you now more than 
then. Yet, if we are truly one, is not this the 
case? The longer we love, the greater, I trust, 
will be the love. We shall better understand 
each other. I have been so happy all these ten 
years of wedded life that, if I were asked when I 
had been happiest, I could only say, Now. It is 
good to be loved, but, oh! it is more blessed to 
love." 

But, above all things, the joy of that little Dover 
home was the prolonged life of Mrs. Farmer. On 
the wedding evening, 1844, the neighbors predicted 
of Hannah Shapleigh that a face so white and 
strength so precarious would take her to a swift 
grave. The family doctor whispered to the groom 
that he did not think it possible for her to tarry in 
the body six months. " See what loving care has 
wrought for me," said the pleasant voice, when 
the prophets "ceased to have honor." The young 
wife touched the heart of her God with the out- 
reach of her faith and prayer, and she lived. 



90 

In the third year of the home life at Dover came 
the joy which is as infinite as the wealth of heaven, 
the gift of the baby daughter. Its mother had been 
called before her bridal the " White Bird" because 
of the striking contrast between the pallor of her 
face and the raven blackness and wealth of her 
hair; and, when the babe was upon her bosom, the 
memory of this name came over her, and she wrote 
a page of verse which, while it commemorates, 
reveals the trustfulness of the two hearts in that 
Love which is willing to listen when prayer in its 
simplicity is left to Him. "There is no inborn 
longing," says George MacDonald, "that shall not 
be fulfilled. I think that is as certain as the for- 
giveness of sins." The longing of the young wife 
was for length of days, and her cup God filled. 
The poem has the signature " Mabelle" by which 
she was known in later years widely, but which she 
probably used for the first time in publishing this 
waif of her pen : — 

THE "WHITE BIRD'S" BRIDAL. 

BY MABELLE. 

" Bring flowers, bring flowers," to deck the bride. 

For a manly heart is by her side ; 

He looks on her now with a tearful eye, 

And thinks perhaps she soon may die. 

But he asks of Heaven to grant him this boon, 
To call her his, if ere it is noon 
Her sun shall set, and her bridal bed 
Be far away with the silent dead, 



And the cypress wreath be around the brow 
Where the orange blossom is twining now ; 
For he feels, if but once he could call her wife, 
It would give him joy through all his life. 

To gaze on the depths of those dreamy eyes, 
"'Till they close on him here to ope in the skies, 
That, if on his breast her head might lie, 
Perhaps he then could see her die ! 

They've breathed their vows, and I see him now 
Humbly before his Saviour bow, 
And ask of him to spare her still, 
If it can but please his holy will. 

His prayer was heard, — she's still by his side, 
But she looks not now like the pale, wan bride ; 
And there's hope in his heart, and it stronger grows 
As he looks on her cheek, for 'tis couleur de rose. 

For health is now hers in answer to prayer, 

And her brow is as yet unmarked by care ; 

For home to her is a place of rest, 

Since love hath e'er lined the " White Bird's " nest. 

We see him again, — she's yet by his side, 
And he looks on her now with a holy pride ; 
For he feels she is his by another claim, — 
Oh, joy to her who bears that name ! 

'Tis another link in the golden chain, 
To bind them anew in its bonds again ; 
For there is a union formed on high, 
Its life is love, — that never can die ! 

When thirty-three more years had glided by, and 
the sun-lighted paradise of Dover had been several 
times exchanged for other and larger homes, and had 
increased every year, in the wealth of affection, the 
same pen wrote for the husband's eye and heart a 



9 2 

tender page, which proved that the venture of set- 
ting up the first domestic altar was no failure and 
no mistake: — 

MY LOVE AND I. 

Come, let us count the blessed years 
We've walked Life's path together, 

And tried to keep a thankful heart, 
Unmindful of the weather. 

For, if some days were dark and cold, 

And all outside were dreary, 
We had within the loving trust 

That makes all things most cheery. 

Faith always looked behind the clouds, 
Where God's dear face was shining. 

So, when we could not sing for joy, 
He kept us from repining. 

Though oft the way has been up-hill, 

Each trial proved a blessing ; 
And what the coming days would bring 

We've spent no time in guessing. 

Nor have we thought in all these years 

Much of each other's duty, 
But tried to make rough places smooth 

By clothing them with beauty. 

The love we laid in youth's bright morn 

Upon the marriage altar 
Has bridged the places all must cross 

Where Hope and Courage falter. 

The vows then made to each and God 

Have never yet been broken; 
And he has known the thanks we feel, 

Which never can be spoken. 



93 



Life's sunniest days, full well we know, 
Have seemed to lack completeness; 

But somehow we, my Love and I, 
Have found in all some sweetness. 

For every milestone we have passed 
We've found each other dearer; 

And every day we live on earth 
Our home above grows clearer. 

Now, on the summit of our lives, 
We look the long path over, 

But what the charm in each has been 
We cannot yet discover. 

We only know two human souls 

In harmony have blended, 
That songs of peace begun on earth 

Will ne'er in heaven be ended. 

Now we have reached Life's aftermath, 

The glory days of living, — 
So happy in each other's love 

That life is one thanksgiving. 

Thus Love and I will surely face 
The coming wintry weather, 

Praying that, whatsoe'er befalls, 
We two may be together. 

And when our latest Christmas comes, 

Opening for us the portal, 
God give to us his welcome hand, 

And crown our love immortal. 



The choice of " Mabelle" as the nom de plume 
for the printed articles of Mrs. Farmer was by her 
husband. She writes of it in 1865 to her friend, 
Mrs. Maria Kemp Crockett, whose soldier husband 



94 

was one of the martyr dead of Hooker's Corps at 
Lookout Mountain, Oct. 29, 1863: — 

"And now, my dear Mrs. Crockett, please re- 
member me with much love to Rev. Mr. Ayer. He 
was one of our dearest friends at Dover. No guest 
ever could be more welcome under our roof than he. 
My respect for him has been constantly increasing. 
A man more sincere or truer cannot be found. 
You will be surprised when I tell you that he never 
knew till last summer, when he was here, that I 
ever attempted rhyme. He asked me how I became 
acquainted with you? What could I say with those 
blue eyes looking me full in the face? Nothing 
but the truth; and I did, dear, though it was a 
cross. I told him of the verses upon your hus- 
band's death. My dear husband never knew that I 
used the pen in this way for some time after we 
were married. When he found it out, he asked me 
to take the name of ' MabelleJ a name which he 
gave me in the days of our betrothal for its signifi- 
cance; and so I assumed it about the year 1849. 
Before that time my articles were signed ' Anna^ 
or published anonymously. I wrote regularly for a 
Salem paper twelve years before the publisher dis- 
covered who k Mabelle ' was. My own precious sister 
Fannie [Mrs. Edwin Rogers, Lillie's mother] heard 
a company of ladies speaking of an article; and 
they wished they could know who ''Mabelle ' was. 
Fannie said to me, 'I would give anything to 
know, and maybe you can find out, Hannah.' Dear 
child! she little thought then who 'Mabclle' was. 



95 

My own blessed mother was in the same ignorance, 
for I wanted nobody to know it. I wrote for the 
same reason that the birds sing, because they can't 
help it. Now, dear, do you wonder that it was 
hard to tell Mr. Ayer?" 



VIII. 



MOTHERHOOD, 



OXE of the little poe:::s which will never die is 
the "Babie Be?!" of T. B. Aldrich. It 
touches a chord which vibrates when the baby voice 
is heard and the little one comes close to the 
bosom. Many a mother knows what it is. even if 
she never wrote a line or felt within her the power 
of song. The following expression of maternity 
found among Mrs. Farmer's papers is not a poem: 
but we doubt if more soulful paragraphs were ever 
penned, or if any babe was ever baptized with truer 
prayers or more sincere consecration than the one 
folded in her own arms. This story of motherhood 
was evidently intended as a letter to some friend. 
whose name has not been preserved with the pages : 
" The love which has crowned my life with un- 

akable happiness came to me as a gift of God. 
In each of his visits after our betrothment Mr. 
Farmer and I knelt together, and thanked him for 
the pure love that was daily lifting our hearts 

rer to him. When I left my dear mother's home 
for one of my own at Dover. I felt the sweetest 
assurance that God's blessing would rest upon it. 
and that angels would fold their snowy wings above 
its peaceful, happy dome. Morning and evening 



97 

the incense from grateful, loving hearts was laid 
upon our dear altar, and it seemed to us then that 
we had in each other's love all that we needed to 
make a heaven of that sweet earthly home. 

"Almost two years of this bright, beautiful 
wedded life had passed when I found myself walk- 
ing under the shadow of maternity. From that 
glad hour I tried to so order my life that it should 
be in harmony with all God's laws, that no impres- 
sion save that for good should be made upon the 
pure little life linked with mine for time and eter- 
nity. Every breath was one of praise that he should 
confer such an honor upon vie. Often I said to 
myself, 'I am the mother of one of God's angels.' 
The very thought of it would thrill me through and 
through, and fill my soul with adoration. I knew, 
so it seemed to me, how Mary, the mother of Jesus, 
felt, when the holiest of all secrets was revealed to 
her. The physical weaknesses were cheerfully 
borne for the sake of the little sinless child sleep- 
ing so near my glad and happy heart. 

"Then came the week when there seemed no 
hope from day to day that even one life could be 
given for the other, but that both would perish 
together. God was better than our fears. O, 
eternity alone will reveal the joy and thanksgiving 
which that precious soul brought to her father and 
mother, and what she has been and still is to us 
whose every hope on earth has centred in her, 
bringing daily with her presence all the light and 
sunshine which has gladdened our home, over 
which suffering has so often cast its shadowy wings. 



"Looking back to the time when this new life 
was consecrated to God (long before we looked 
upon the face of our child), I can see God's hand 
leading us step by step in the path which his love 
marked out for us; and, if ever a father and mother 
felt the responsibility laid upon them through the 
birth of a child, I believe we have. As far as we 
know, we have faithfully tried to discharge each 
duty required of us. I can recall no instance in 
her life when her best good for time and eternity 
was not the first consideration with us. We have 
the assurance in our own souls that God has 
accepted the offering which we have daily lifted to 
him. 

" She had oeen with us two years when God saw 
that we needed a new baptism for the work he had 
laid out for us to do for him and the world. One 
hour she was seemingly in health, and the next crit- 
ically ill. A few days later all hope of her life 
had been abandoned; and our physician left her, as 
he said, beyond the reach of human aid. When 
this awful truth came home to us, there was no 
pulse at the wrist, and a glass held to her lips was 
all that gave any signs of life in the precious little 
wasted body. Agony is the only word which can 
ever express the mental distress of the awful hour 
when we felt we must give her up. We had taken 
her as a gift from God. Could we give her back to 
him joyfully? Holding her dear little baby hands 
in ours, as icy cold as death can ever make them, 
we fell upon our knees by the side of her bed, and 



99 

prayed as only parents can under such circum- 
stances. We thanked him that he had given her to 
us, that he had spared her life so long; and we 
begged him to help us to yield her up if it was his 
will to take her from us then, and we asked for her 
life if that would be for his glory. We promised 
him that we would never hold her again as ours, but 
as his child, loaned to us, to be trained for a life of 
usefulness here on earth, and as a messenger for his 
service in heaven when she could no longer do his 
work and bidding here with us. The prayer was 
heard and registered. It was answered here upon 
earth. A few hours later the tide of life turned 
slowly backwards; and 'God be praised, the child 
will live,' fell from the lips of our physician. 

"From that day to this we have had God's own 
child in our care and keeping, until she has become 
to us our household evangel. If our life-work were 
to end for her this very hour, I think we could con- 
scientiously say before him and the world that we 
have honestly and faithfully tried to keep the vows 
we made when she was given back to us as one 
raised from the dead, as well as when we accepted 
her at her birth as a gift from him. God has cer- 
tainly set his seal of approval upon our life-work for 
her by giving us the desire of our hearts in making 
her an angel of good influences to all with whom 
she comes in contact. By this, thank God, we 
know that our work has been acceptable to him, and 
that our daily prayers for this dear one have been 
heard and answered." 



100 



In 1S89, when this consecrated daughter was 
visiting in Boston at the residence of her uncle 
(the Hon. Charles Carleton Coffin), Mrs. Coffin 
desired a longer stay, and asked Mrs. Farmer 
to lend her daughter a few more days. To this she 
wrote responsively : "Tell Aunt Sarah that I cannot 
lend you to the Lord, because I gave you back to 
him when you were two years old; and I have never 
felt the least desire to recall the gift from that day 
to this. Ever since then it has been a mystery why 
he asked me to do it, but now it is all made plain. 
I thought I should have to wait until I saw him 
face to face to understand it. The vow I made 
then has influenced my whole life, and I can never 
be released of its obligations until he takes one of 
us to himself." 

Hardly a letter did this most lovingly conscien- 
tious mother write but she revealed the wonderful 
maternity by allusions to this daughter, upon whom 
God did indeed give an endowment, kindred to that 
of her mother, of divine thoughtfulness and per- 
ception of human cries. 

"We are greatly blessed in our daughter dear 
[wrote the mother]. She was consecrated to God 
while she was yet sleeping beneath my heart; and, 
when he said to me, 'Take this child, and rear her 
for me, and I will pay thee thy wages,' I believed 
just what he said, and have lived to see his word 
verified. When she was three years old, I sat 
down, and wrote out what kind of woman I wanted 
her to be ; and that was always before me as some- 



IOI 



thing to work up to. God has blessed my feeble 
efforts beyond all I dared to hope." 

It would be a pleasant interest if we could find 
among Mrs. Farmer's papers this mental and spirit- 
ual chart and standard to which she aimed to de- 
velop and lead this God-given daughter. When 
it had served its purpose, probably it was no longer 
preserved; but the mother's prayers and her wealth 
of love and wisdom can never be consumed. On 
the child's eighth birthday the mother noted in a 
day-book : — 

"Dear little Sarah is eight years old to-day. 
How grateful I am to the Giver of Life that our 
dear home has not been clouded by the removal of 
our darling child! If it can be, Father, for our 
good and thy glory, I ask for life, that I may help 
mould her character. I want to live until I see her 
step forth a true woman,— the heart and mind de- 
veloped, the good and the noble of her nature 
expanded, the intellect cultivated. I would unite 
sweetness and strength, gentleness and firmness, — 
all these happily blended; the mind both poetical 
and practical, the taste refined and pure, and a 
love for the excellent as well as the beautiful in art 
and nature, — this is the outline I would draw for 
a home character." 

And, when the mother had so written, she added 
upon a diary leaf: — 

"Dear child, remember that the secret you are 
tempted to keep from your mother is one which 
will bring grief to your heart. Let your life be as 



102 



open to her as the day. Love truth and sincerity, 
and never let them fade from the heart. This is 
your mother's prayer." 

Many years later she wrote of one way which 
her wisdom dictated as a development of the child: 

"We began early in our daughter's life to take 
her into our own conferences, hoping thereby to 
hold her confidence; and now she is a part of our- 
selves in all that relates to our domestic and busi- 
ness arrangements. We depend upon her to advise 
as well as to comfort us." 

Once, when the entire family was expected to 
be at a sanitarium, by some inadvertence the head 
of the institution had not comprehended that the 
daughter was a part of the house, and wrote to 
know who the lady was who would accompany them? 
'Had they a daughter,' etc.? To this query was 
sent the playful yet truly maternal response : — 

"Give my love to doctor. Tell him Miss 
Farmer, if so it please God, we will bring, and will 
let him see what kind of a girl she is; and, until 
then, he will please think of the best girl he ever 
knew (his own dear wife excepted), and then imag- 
ine that mine is a little better, and he will not be 
far from right." 

On one of the child's birthdays she drifted into 
melody: — 

OUR BUD, WITH ITS LEAVES YET FOLDED. 

How varied are the thoughts to-day, 

As I review the past, 
And live again those precious hours, 

Each brighter than the last. 



103 

They come to me with rainbow hue, 
Their tints are fair and bright ; 

And 'tis your life, my darling child, 
Which gives them now the light. 

Though few the years since first you came 

To gladden hearts and home, 
Long may it be, if thus God will, 

Ere angels bid you " come." 

And now, my dear and precious child, 

Of all that's in my heart, 
What would you ask of me to-day 

If that could be your part ? 

This is the blessing that I crave, 

This is my earnest prayer, 
That you in youth may come to God 

And seek his watchful care. 

I ask not for you wealth or power, 

I ask not wit or fame, — 
I would not have you strive to win 

Alone an earthly name. 

Nor would I ask for beauty's gift, 

Only in heart and soul : 
If this is yours, an angel's hand 

Shall carve it on his scroll. 

Then if, sweet child, I go away 

While yet your years are few, 
I trust some lessons I have tatight 

May not be lost on you. 

And, if it is not mine to guide 

Your feet from day to day, 
May loving hearts be ever near 

To watch you lest you stray. 

Your mother's heart is yearning now 
To shield you from all harm ; 



104 

For love like hers would gladly save, 
But powerless her arm. 

Then learn to trust in God, sweet child, 
And give him now your heart ; 

Before the " evil days shall come," 
Oh, " choose the better part." 

Live every day as though it were 
The last that might be given 

For you to do what good you could, 
For you to fit for heaven. 



IX. 



MATERNAL RESPONSIBILITY. 

A BOSTON minister said, "Every child born to 
a household should be converted in the house- 
hold." Mrs. Farmer gave emphatic credence to the 
remark, and urged mothers to the positive faith 
that saved the child while yet it was a child. In 
a letter to one whom she had learned greatly to 
love, she reminds her that she had yielded her son 
unto God by covenant, and asks if she had seen to 
it that this child, then grown to a youth, had added 
his own definite seal to the parental pledge : — 

" I want to thank you for the paper containing 
the report of the meeting where your son Henry 
made such an excellent speech. How much he 
seems like his dear father! I can never forget that 
Henry was consecrated especially to God's work. 
Has he in any way ratified the vows which his 
parents made for him? He is a child of the cove- 
nant, and God has a claim upon him that has never 
yet been recognized unless he is living to-day with 
an eye single to God's glory. How I long to hear 
that he has taken up his father's work in the 
church, the Sunday-school, and among all those 
with whom he is daily brought into contact! Give 



io6 



my love to him. Tell him the Master has need of 
him, and that I am praying that he may be a faithful 
soldier of the Cross." 

To the mother of two dear and consecrated boys, 
whose father was with Jesus, she said : — 

"The great work God has given you to do will 
not be finished until your dear ones are brought 
into the fold of Christ. How my heart yearns over 
those two dear boys, lacking only one thing! I 
cannot rest satisfied until they have sought forgive- 
ness of their sins, and given themselves wholly to 
Christ. These little lambs of the fold had a place 
in their father's heart and prayers from the earliest 
moment of their lives; and, if he could speak to 
them to-day, his word would be, ''Come to Jesus.'' 
Give them my tenderest motherly love. Tell them 
from me that the Saviour is the dearest friend I 
have." 

Another letter of wisdom, written evidently to 
some endeared friend, was left in duplicate among 
her papers. It is concerning the actual loss to 
children of home influences and life: — 

"If the child continues to be often away from 
home, she will become estranged from it, and will 
learn to do without her father's counsel, advice, 
company, and society, and also his love. When 
old age creeps on, she will not be as ready to min- 
ister to his needs and wishes as if she had always 
been at home with him. That her relatives should 
be delighted to have the young and sprightly crea- 
ture with them is no wonder, but they may not con- 



107 

sider the effect of the many and prolonged visits. 
If they do, they will love you enough to give you 
back what is rightfully yours, — the care and devel- 
opment of your child. 

"Her mother is a noble woman, of sterling 
character and influence, which she would exert over 
the child in revealing her moral and intellectual 
traits; and she cannot afford to lose this training. 
Your daughter is now at the age when girls think it 
is nice to have liberty; but it is an age that does 
not distinguish between liberty and license, and 
license roams at its own strong will without hin- 
drance from anybody. It is certainly not wisdom 
for young girls. The Bible says that it is good to 
bear the yoke in youth, and it is good to be brought 
up to respect parental authority. A daughter who 
grows up without the habit of obedience never will 
become of the truly good and great of earth. So 
very many young girls in your city promenade up 
and down the streets in the evenings ; and, if one 
is tempted to imitate or join them, there will be 
danger of going astray. It is much better for the 
child that the evenings, as a rule, be mostly spent 
at home with father and mother, growing up in 
mutual love and confidence with them. 

"Please pardon me for writing so plainly. I 
should not be a true friend to you if I neglected 
this word of caution. I wish the best of earthly 
and heavenly blessings upon all of you." 

Scores of mothers asked Mrs. Farmer perplexing 
questions when the overplus of child life bubbled 



io8 



and exploded more perhaps in mischief and tease 
than in actual evil, and learned from her how to 
direct the buoyancy and frolic rather than correct 
with rod and severity. But, like all mothers, now 
and then in her own administration of discipline 
its effect upon her daughter puzzled and perplexed 
her. She remembered that neither her father nor 
mother applied the rod literally, and yet their 
words and ways were more keenly and indelibly 
fixed upon the minds and hearts of the children 
than a cuffed ear or an applied birch could have 
been. She, in turn, had no rods or ferules; but 
discipline was needful just the same. It always 
is, whether we be in child life or age. Her little 
daughter had a birthday party, and the child had 
anticipated it as only a child can. The yard was 
large enough for the appropriate games, and the 
garden gate had shut them in; and Mrs. Farmer 
had given the injunction that it was not to be 
opened. She was entirely restful in her mind 
about her own and her neighbors' children, for dis- 
obedience was not trite at Eden Home. Suddenly 
the mother became conscious of a silence. It was 
the hush of absence. Not a child nor a doll was 
left. The street, too, was still. The little daugh- 
ter had not only opened the gate, but had turned 
envoy and had coyed the entire group out of the yard 
and out of the street and out of sight. It was a mo- 
ment of sorrow to a heart and a conscientiousness 
like Mrs. Farmer's. She went for the lost lambs, 
led them back to the allotted garden, carried the 






109 

little ringleader away to the side of her bed, told 
her about the grief of disobedience, and then as 
a necessary penalty gave her a bath, as if it were 
bedtime, put on her night-dress, and put her to bed 
without any birthday supper. The child, to the 
mother's distress, did not demur or cry. She 
entered into her mother's plan as an angel would; 
and, lastly, her young and beaming face looked up 
from the pillow, and exclaimed in sweetest content- 
ment: "Isn't this nice? Ever so much nicer than 
to be out in the sun." It was a phase of penitence 
wholly unexpected and quite outside of the mother's 
scope. She had looked for sorrow, and found the 
happiest birthday comfort. The rest of the chil- 
dren ate a delightful supper, and were dismissed: 
but the perplexed mother wondered if she had im- 
pressed her one household lamb with the fact that 
obedience is the key-note of all joy. In a letter 
about the discipline of children she related another 
incident : — 

"My daughter was never allowed to have her 
playthings about nor to dress and undress her dolls 
on Sunday, although she always kept one of them 
with her, and could have her desire as to which it 
should be. One Lord's Day, to my great astonish- 
ment, I found her dressing them all in their outside 
garments. I sat down beside her, and said, 'Have 
you forgotten, dear, what day this is ? ' With a 
shake of her head, she very softly answered, fc No, 
I haven't.' 'Then why are you dressing your dolls, 
when you have been forbidden? ' 4 0h, they are all 
going to Sabbath school, mother! ' 



no 

Mrs. Farmer did not write the termination of 
this new version of Sunday pastime; but, as if her 
own craving was to be right in all her gentle and 
yet positive demeanor before her child, she adds: — 

" Oh, what a debt I owe my own parents ! The 
law of love ruled our house. What passed between 
parent and child in mother's room was never 
breathed into other ears. All we ever knew of 
those secret meetings was our own experience 
there." 

When the devoted daughter of Mrs. Farmer had 
grown to early womanhood, and was spending a 
week in town, her love of the beautiful revealed it- 
self in the coveting of some article of a price which 
caused her to consider before purchasing, and to 
consult her mother. The mother-wisdom was not 
only full of tenderness in its response, but gives 
also a glimpse of the domestic life sanctified 
because it was a part of the God-way and love : — 

"My precious child, I do not know what to say. 
I love you so dearly that I suffer to deny you any- 
thing. I see now that, if your father had been a 
rich man when you were born, I should have spoiled 
you. So our privations were a blessing, if they 
were the means of making you the noble, good 
woman that you are. But, oh, how little you know 
the sacrifices we have made! If I were to live my 
past days again, however, I would choose the same 
trials rather than the artificial wants of many who 
have money enough." 

No wonder that a mother who could write thus 
should say yet further, — ■ 



Ill 

"Take good care of your dear self for the sake 
of the world that needs you, as well as for the 
father and mother whose lives and loves are bound 
up with you." 

Mrs. Farmer carried a most tender memory of a 
book she read in the early years of her domestic 
life, in which was given the method the venerated 
Joel Hawes pursued in inflicting the rod on the 
tiny hand of his daughter Mary, the greatly be- 
loved. As the child held it out to receive the 
blow, he covered his face, and then struck her. It 
was not the rod that hurt, but the grieved and cov- 
ered face. She committed to paper a very tender 
story which was told her when she was learning, 
what so many mothers need to know, the difference 
between the superabounding imaginations of the 
child and a deliberate falsity. Many a lamb has 
been whipped for an untruth whose mind was as 
free from deceit as the sparkle of clear water. She 
published the story after the death of the father 
alluded to in the "article. 

A LIFE LESSON. 
I learned a lesson years ago that has been the 
means of making me a better mother than I should 
have been but for the instruction received. I will 
tell you of it, parents, hoping it will lead you to 
ask, " Have I always been sure the offence was com- 
mitted by a child before I have inflicted punish- 
ment?" Answer unto God, lest you plant a thorn 
in your soul that shall fester till death. 



I 12 



It was a beautiful June morning. The whole air 
was fresh with the breath of flowers. Everything 
in nature seemed uniting in one grand chorus of 
praise of Him who had created all these beauties. 
In our bright and sunny home there were heavy 
clouds gathering. One little bud blossomed alone 
on the parent stem ; and she, our wee, pet bird of 
four summers, had that morning been accused of 
telling her first falsehood. My heart was heavy 
with grief as I took her upon my knee to tell her 
the nature of untruth, and to ascertain, if possible, 
from her if she had been guilty. 

As I was talking to her, a man whose head was 
white, but not with the snows of many winters, for 
he was yet in the meridian of life, came in. He 
had heard through the window a part of the conver- 
sation; and, as he opened the door, he said, 
"Don't punish the child till you are positive that 
she is wrong." He was a man in whose judgment 
I had confidence; and I said, "How can I be more 
sure than I am? " I told him all the circum- 
stances. He replied: "You may be mistaken. If 
that child has never told you a falsehood, don't 
punish her until you know she has now." He then 
told me of the one great sorrow of his life, of that 
which had made him an old man at heart while he 
was yet young in years. 

" I had [said he], at the time of which I speak, 
five children. They were all of them as dutiful 
and obedient as I could wish them to be. I had 
never used the rod upon one of them. The law of 



H3 

love had always ruled the house. One day a man 
who had been in my employ many years came to 
me, and said, fc I am sorry to tell you that Henry 
has taken all the peaches from that young tree of 
yours.' It had never borne fruit before; and I was 
anxious to have the peaches ripen, to judge of the 
quality. I called my son to my room, and ques- 
tioned him. He told me in positive language that 
he did not take a peach from the tree, had not even 
been in the garden for the day. I called the man 
who had accused Henry, and with whom he had 
been a favorite, who affirmed the fault; but still 
the child denied all knowledge of it. I said to him 
that the taking of the fruit would bear no compari- 
son to the guilt of denying it; and, by every reason 
and persuasion I could command, I entreated him 
to tell the truth. He put his arms about my neck, 
and said, 'Father, I cannot say I did, for it would 
be a lie; and I cannot tell you a lie! ' The proof 
against him was so reliable that I punished him 
severely, but still he made no confession. Guilty 
I felt he must be, though before this day his word 
had ever been implicitly relied on. 

" A year passed slowly away, and he had made no 
acknowledgment. I could not have believed before 
that time that so much sorrow could be condensed 
into a year. One night he complained of not 
feeling well. As he did not grow better in a day 
or two, we had advice. The doctor said it was but 
the effects of a cold. The evening of the fifth day 
I felt an anxiety about him which I could not 



H4 

describe. I told his mother that I would sit with 
him that night. She laughed at my fears, and said 
he was sleeping as sweetly as he ever did in his 
life. This I allowed to be true, and yet there was 
such a weight upon my spirits it seemed as though 
my heart would die within me. Near morning his 
breathing became almost laborious. He raised 
himself suddenly in bed, and with his blue eyes 
full in my face said, 'Father, do you remember that 
you punished me when you thought I told you a 
lie? ' With anguish I told him I did. 'Father, 
do you believe me now when I say I never told you 
a lie in my life? ' The thought had often come to 
me that perhaps he did tell me the truth. And 
yet, I reasoned, how could it be possible? for I 
knew the man who testified against him to be the 
soul of honor, and I must therefore disbelieve my 
child. But now, in this strange moment, I felt he 
was speaking the truth; and I told him so. His 
eye, glazed in death, watched my face with intense 
anxiety. He read every secret thought ; and, with 
a look I can never forget, and with a smile that 
nobody but an angel could wear, he said, 'I am 
willing to die, for you believe meS A few short 
breaths, a kiss, and 4 a kiss for mother,' and I held 
in my arms the lifeless child. It was too late to 
atone for the wrong I had done him, for whom I 
would have died; but it is not too late to save 
others from what I have suffered. For this reason 
I lay bare my heart with all its untold grief, that 
you may be spared from gathering like bitter fruit." 



H5 

The mystery of the peach-tree was all made clear 
by the confessions of a boy. For a year he had 
known that Henry was suffering unjustly from the 
accusation of theft and falsehood, and yet he had 
not the courage to acknowledge that he was the 
guilty one. But the cold white face in the coffin 
appealed to him, and he went and told all the facts; 
and then it was known that the departed soul had 
gone up to its Father in garments unstained by the 
sin of falsehood. 

Of the sorrow of him who had loved Henry with 
almost a father's love, who had mistaken another 
boy for him, we will not speak, but pray God that 
a pang like that may never rend our hearts. 

But I know something of the joy this knowledge 
must have given the bereaved father, when, a few 
days after the above conversation, I found that the 
soul of my child was still free from the stain of 
falsehood, and but for him the same pain would be 
cankering my remembrance of the wrong I had done 
her who sheds such light and joy in our household. 
As I see day by day her little heart unfold to me, 
with no desire to conceal aught from my watchful 
eye, sharing with me every childlike secret, I bless 
God for the lesson I heard, and send this forth with 
the soulful prayer that it may be a word fitly 
spoken. 



X. 



A WRITER in the Censor of Fredonia, N.Y., 
speaks of Mrs. Barker, who was once a 
teacher of children in that town, and of a descrip- 
tive name given to her by the Indians : — 

"I was told the other day that, when Mrs. Barker 
was young, she was much among the Indians ; and 
she so won their hearts by her simple manner and 
kindly disposition that they gave her the name 'She 
Makes Happy.' It pronounced the character of her 
whole life. She ever sought the happiness of the 
poor, the sorrowing, and the unfortunate; and she 
did this for the sake of Christ, who died to give 
happiness to her. If I were asked for a motto for 
you, I know of nothing more suitable than this to 
write upon your banner, 'She Makes Happy,' and 
underneath write the words of the Saviour, 'Inas- 
much as ye have done it unto one of the least of 
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' ' 

It was said of Dr. Muhlenberg that he was so 
kind he was called "Everybody's father." And to 
Mrs. Farmer was given by a little lad a quaint but 
affectionate title, "my t'other mother." Mrs. Far- 
mer inherited from her parents such a loving de- 



ii7 

meanor that children went to her as readily as to 
the maternal arms. A lady, who well remembers 
the family in Great Falls, said of Mrs. Shapleigh: 
"We can all say, who remember her, that we loved 
her like a mother. No child anxious to play was 
ever afraid to go to her house to see the children. 
Whatever the hour or the inconvenience, it was a 
happy threshold to pass over." All children had 
the same experience at the different homes of Mrs. 
Farmer, or wherever she chanced to be. The very 
pleasant memory is distinctly in the mind of a 
cousin who, when he was but three years of age, 
learned to call her by her new name of "t'other 
mother." He never ceased to speak of her as such 
as long as she lived to bless him. He had been 
very sick; and, as he was convalescing, his mother 
was desired to minister at the bedside of the lad's 
grandmother. She gave the child strict injunctions 
not to go without the house, for he would surely 
renew his disease if he did. Mrs. Farmer said, 
u Supposing you trust him to me, and let me wrap 
him, and take him into the sunshine now and 
then." The mother acquiesced, and went away 
restful as to his safety; and the two left behind had 
a very satisfactory day. A second demand came 
from the same sick-bed; and, as the mother was 
again leaving, she began to renew the cautions, 
when the three-year-old creature exclaimed, " If my 
t'other mother says I may go out, it will be all right." 
This singular epithet, t'other mother, was the most 
appropriate that could be given, and was felt if not 



n8 



spoken, by many. A New Year's letter and greet- 
ing which she once received said : — 

" I began the New Year by writing to my mother 
in North Carolina, and will continue the good work 
by writing to my Mother Farmer. I want to see you 
so much. It seems as if you ought to be here to 
help me start the New Year in the right way. I 
know that you pray for me, and that is a great deal ; 
but your presence is such a benediction. It is a 
beautiful, bright day, and I take it as an omen of 
good for the year and for all those whom I love. 
God grant that it may bring you strength and 
health and all the blessings you so richly deserve." 

In the soldier letters during the Civil War, how 
often was she called Mother by the boys in blue. 
One letter dated at Jefferson Barracks reads : — 

"My dear Friend, — I had almost written 4 My 
dear Mother!" You smile, but please forgive me. 
Your letters always come to me so fraught with 
motherly goodness that, while reading them, I am 
always translated into their atmosphere, and am 
made holy by the kind influences of my own dear 
mother, now lost to me except in fond and grateful 
memory. I know, were she alive, her good heart, 
like your own, would be with the soldiers every- 
where in our armies. How anxiously and tenderly 
she, too, would have followed the rough marches 
of her only son, exposed to all the uncertainties of 
soldier-life!" 

Her mails, even to the latest day of her life, had 
the tenderest of messages, which showed how 



ii9 

people, some of them strangers, were sensibly ap- 
preciative of her motherliness. A youth who was, 
perhaps, a waiter at a mountain hotel in summer 
and a medical student in winter, tells her: "We 
had multitudes to entertain, but none appreciated 
our efforts as you have, and let me thank you and 
yours for the many little tokens you have sent. I 
shall keep them all, and prize them highly." 
Another pen says, "We wonder how you can, in 
the midst of all your suffering, be so mindful of 
others." Yes, it was indeed a wonder unto many 
besides. An aged and trembling hand, even 
though her senior by a score of years, clung to her 
as a child, and told her: "The wide world has no 
home for withered hearts. The rains of heaven 
alone can freshen them. I know what Isaiah means 
by a root out of a dry ground." Mrs. Farmer 
became to her the heaven's refreshing rain; and the 
tired old soul called her "the mother heart," and 
leaned upon her with comfort. 

She had some specially adopted children of her 
love, and we read in the margin of her Scripture 
day-book at October 8 : "Frederic Farmer Rowe's 
birthday. He is my boy now, for his own dear 
mother has gone to live with Jesus." The mother 
spirit increased tenfold when her heavenly Father 
had transferred her own little baby Clarence to the 
Saviour's bosom; but, before that day of her sorrow 
and tears, she writes to her early friend, Mrs. Char- 
lotte M. Pray, on the death of her first-born: — 

"Dear Charlotte: Your dear letter was received; 



120 



and it was to us a mournful interest to read the 
story of your angel child. Oh, Charlotte, though 
you have passed through the soul's baptism of tears, 
yet you have joy in your heart that you have added 
a jewel to the crown of our blessed Lord. I can 
say nothing more to you, dearest, by way of sym- 
pathy or hope than that you have a child in glory. 
I know all the love of a mother's heart, but I 
know nothing of the agony of separation. Oh, it 
must be dreadful to give up a darling child, though 
we know it has gone where it will be cared for with 
all the parent's love and heart! I am grateful to 
you for the prayer that the time may be long ere we 
shall be childless. God grant it may. We have 
given our lamb to him, and I try to be willing that 
he shall do with her as he sees best ; but I know 
nothing of a parting, for it has not come. Our 
dear child is well, and she talks a great deal about 
your Mary. I love to have her, and I never want 
her to forget her. Some time I want you to give 
her something that belonged to Mary; but things 
that once were hers are sacred, for they belonged to 
an angel. Dear child, I loved her, and the day is 
far distant when she will be forgotten by any of us." 
Years after the date of the above, when her pains 
and her grief had widened her loving interest in 
everybody, she was in Boston. At the same board- 
ing-house was a youth not over-familiar with city 
deceptions and snares, and she became interested 
that he should preserve the innocence of the life he 
had brought with him from the parental home. He 



121 



was a pleasant young creature, and it may be that 
the winsome have the greater or at least the oftener 
snares set for their entrapment. Wholly unknown 
to this young heart, she watched with constant 
prayer his nightly home-coming. She had the 
thought that, if he were safely housed, his character 
was unstained. One night he came not. It was ten 
of the clock, and eleven, then midnight, and finally 
the clock had struck one. The youth was compara- 
tively a stranger to her; and why should she be 
troubled? Was it her burden? He was some- 
body's son, and that was enough. If he had been 
her own boy, would not her heart have wrestled 
with God for his earlier return? She wrote upon 
slips of paper such words as her Lord breathed into 
her brain. She carried them to his apartment, and 
slipped them into the frame of his mirror, where he 
would be sure to see them at morning, if not at his 
return. It was such a surprise to him as he read 
them; and how kindly he sought her when he 
could! "I never dreamed that anybody in this 
great city cared whether I was in the house or out 
of it," said he. 

"I want you always to remember," she answered, 
"that one heart in Boston, while I am here at least, 
will never cease to be interested to know that you 
are safe from evil." 

Ah! our f other mothers! God multiply them, 
and thereby save many and many from the steps 
that lead to positive sin! 

On a slip of paper in her folio was written a 



122 



single stanza, which may have been the beginning 
of a rhythmical expression of her interest in the 
soul welfare of some young person : — 

" When your thoughts are homeward turning, 
Do you ever softly say, 
There a faithful eye is watching. 
Praying for me night and day? " 

It did not seem possible for Mrs. Farmer ever to 
forget the children of her heart: and, therefore, 
years after "her boy Paul "' had left her employ she 
wrote to him : — 

"My dear Paul: You will never know in this 
world how glad I was to receive your good letter. 
I could not keep back the tears of thankfulness 
when I read it. We received a letter from you just 
before we left Newport, and Mr. Farmer answered 
it at once, and sent in it a letter of recommenda- 
tion; but your letter to him was packed, and none 
of us remembered positively your address. I do 
not want to lose sight of vou as Ions: as I live: and 
you must keep on writing to me, even if vou do not 
get an answer. You may be sure that our interest 
in all that concerns you will never be less than it 
was the day we parted from you in dear old New- 
port. You were a good and faithful boy to us 
every day you were in our employ, and you never 
did a thing to give us a moment's care or to grieve 
us: and we shall never forget your kindness or that 
of each member of your own family. We were 
made very happy by r seeing them ail when we were 
at Newport, and I was so grateful to you and to 



123 

them for the beautiful flowers. I had them two 
whole weeks. It seemed as if they dreaded to 
fade, and I am sure I dreaded to have them. The 
picture of our Island Home, which you so nicely 
painted, always reminds us of you; and the beauti- 
ful gifts which you sent from California hang in 
my sitting-room. I have sent you the Newport 
Mercury ever since we left, and I shall as long as I 
live. This will show you that my boy Paul is 
always remembered by 'Mother Farmer.' Mr. Far- 
mer has a long article in a recent Commercial 
Advertise? upon 'Rapid Transit.' You shall have 
a copy. I hope we shall hear from you; and, if in 
any way we can help you, we shall be thankful to 
do it." 

When the war broke out, not an incident escaped 
the heart that took every soldier in. Not even the 
little drummer-boy was overlooked. Her then 
feeble hand grasped a pencil, and retold in verse 
the simple story; and it floated out in the tide of 
war songs : — 

THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY. 

" In the Twenty-sixth Iowa Infantry is a little drummer-boy, 
eleven years old. His father is a lieutenant in the same regi- 
ment. We have two ladies on board going to Milliken's Bend 
to see their husbands, and they are quite a God-send to us in 
taking care of our wounded. The little drummer-boy is run- 
ning around in the cabin, picking up the balls that dropped on 
the floor, while they are still whistling and the splinters are 
flying in every direction. He seemc perfectly regardless of 
danger. His name is John R. Durgin. We can hear heavy 
firing in the direction of Vicksburg this morning, and the boys 



124 

are very anxious to be on the battle-ground and take part with 
the rest." — Extract f?'om a letter by George W. Madden. 

Where grape and shell were flying fast, 

With naught to bring us joy, 
We watched with wonder and surprise 

Our little drummer-boy. 

How firm he stood at danger's post 

Bright histories will tell ; 
Though all around the leaden hail. 

Naught could his courage quell. 

Still but a child ! his years how few, 

But yet a hero now ! 
And we should joy to wreathe for him 

A crown for that pure brow. 

Not of the fading laurel made, 

For this he soon might lose, 
But one to keep his spirit pure 

Would be the wreath we choose, 

To make him valiant, firm, and brave, 

That sin might never coil 
Round him its folds, but be a " charm " 

The tempter's arts to foil. 

Proud should we be to lead him now 

Up to his mother there, 
Then promise that her child should be 

Remembered in our prayer. 

She watches now beside the couch 

Where wounded men we see ; 
But Jesus yet will say to her, 

" Ye did it unto me." 

He saw the sacrifice she made 

To give both sire and son ; 
But, if they fall, we trust 'twill be 

With all their " armor on." 



125 

God bless them still, we ask of Heaven. 

Though strangers but in name, 
Each in our heart shall have a place, 

If never known to fame. 

In a letter without date she relates the following 
bit of infant innocence : — 

" My precious Birdie: The little prattler, is always 
close beside me; and she wants to be petted and 
loved as much as I do. Last night she climbed 
into my lap, and said, 'Auntie, do I comfort you 
any?' and I told her yes, she did, a very great 
deal. She answered, 'Well, I feel all day and 
all night as though I wanted to comfort somebody.' 
In a moment after she looked up, and added, c You 
look kind of happy now!' Dear little innocent, 
how hard it would be for her to understand the 
heart's mysteries!" 

One of the latest letters she wrote developed the 
fact that she "knew our griefs and carried our sor- 
rows," even as he did who said, "As one whom 
his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." 

" My dear Mrs. D., — My mother-heart has gone 
out to you in the tenderest pity, and I have longed 
to be a comfort to you. God alone can know how 
thankful we are that Nellie is even now looking 
forward to a time when she can be in her own dear 
home once more. What a red-letter day it will be 
to you both! I wish I could go as far as the door 
with her, and then shut her in with you, and let 
God and his angels be your only guests. I think 
Nellie has a great work to do, and that the present 



126 



discipline is a part of the Master's training. I 
wrote one of her friends recently that I thought 
some new work would be given her; and, when the 
dear Father shows her what it is, I trust she will 
be ready to say, 'Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth.' 
How much we shall have to do for God and human- 
ity to show our gratitude to him for sparing her 
precious life! 'What shall I render? ' is the daily 
cry of my heart." 

In urging a labor of love for children, she once 
related a tender story, to develop the fact that even 
in a child-heart there may be a most beautiful 
recognition and appreciation of all that is of true 
character. Her mother-heart instinctively read the 
child-heart : — 

" Hoyt was an only son, one of the most beautiful 
children I ever saw. A few days before he went 
away his mother noticed a little boy about his own 
age near the house. She asked him if he knew 
who it was. k Yes, mamma, he is one of my play- 
mates. Papa told me, if I found any little boy at 
school who always told the truth and never swore, 
I must not think anything about his clothes, for his 
father might not be able to give him as good 
clothes as I wore; and I must never let that make 
any difference, but play with him just the same. 
And so I always play with this boy.' The day 
after Hoyt went to God this poor boy came to the 
door with sobs and tears, and the servant told 
Hoyt's mother; and, when she heard of it, she led 
the boy herself to look upon the idolized face, and 
had him ride with the family at the burial." 



127 

In one of her letters to Margaret Merritt, a dear 
friend who preceded her but a few months to the 
eternal land, she told of her efforts in behalf of a 
young and very interesting German girl, who was a 
mother, but husbandless, and then added: — 

"If ever I have been of any help to the tried and 
tempted, if any influence has gone forth to turn one 
poor soul back from the path of sin, I owe it all to 
God, who opened the fountain of motherhood in my 
heart from which so many streams are flowing 
to-day. In every young man who needs a mother's 
helping hand / see my own son. May God forgive 
me for the selfishness that his eye may detect, which 
has too often prompted me to make some sacrifice 
to add one stone to the temple which I would have 
every young man build for himself with the help of 
Almighty God! 

I must not think of the glory beyond, 

Or dreamily rest on my oar, 
But turn to the wrecks on every hand, 

And try to draw them ashore." 

And, when the mother of Margaret Merritt died, 
she sent her a tender word as a birthday remem- 
brance : — 

" I did not forget that your birthday came on the 
1 8th of March. I prayed for you, as my heart was 
filled with the tenderest pity, knowing this was the 
first birthday you ever passed motherless . 

1 We cannot be of all bereft 
While we have God and mother left.' 



128 



"How often I repeated that when all the waves 
were going over me! And now our mothers are 
waiting for us on the other side! I want you to let 
me be a mother to you in place of the dear one 
gone, as far as I can be ; and, God helping me, I 
will never be weighed and found wanting. God is 
good to us, and our dear mothers' blessings fall on 
us as benedictions. As soon as the birds come, I 
want you to make us a visit, and write often to your 
loving foster-mother, H. T. S. F." 

She must have impressed her motherliness on her 
own little daughter's mind and heart; for, in writ- 
ing from Washington in December, 1855, to Mrs. 
Baker, she relates an illustrative incident : — 

" My dear mother is at our Salem home, so I am 
sure Birdie will get good care while I am away; 
but I have been with the child so much that I can- 
not bear to leave her. She seemed very happy 
when we came away, and said there was but one 
thing she wanted to have me bring her, and that 
was all the little children who have no homes! Dear 
child, she little thinks what a family I should col- 
lect in a short time! " 



XL 



ANOTHER RAILROAD. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON'S children came 
from school one day, and told him that the 
composition subject for the week was "The Build- 
ing of a House." He responded, "You must be 
sure to say that no house nowadays is perfect with- 
out having a nook where a fugitive slave can be 
hidden away." 

We do not suppose that the Dover home of the 
Farmers had been built with special reference to 
the secretion of runaways, but the young wife was 
equal to all emergencies and necessities. Her 
heart was as ingenious to plan and arrange for 
deeds of human good as was her husband's brain to 
suggest motors and fire alarms. The first kindly 
thing the bride did when she reached her new home 
was to file her name as a philanthropist, and it 
must be remembered that in 1844 it required a 
courage more than we dream now to be a sympa- 
thizer with bond-people. Five days after the wed- 
ding she made this record: "Dover, Tuesday, 
Dec. 29, 1844. Went to the Anti-slavery Society 
at Mrs. Flagg's, and gave my name as a member. 
Hope I may be the means of doing some good." If 



130 

the faded memories of those early, loving, quiet 
days could be freshened and enlivened by her own 
voice, we should be able to weave into this fabric 
incidents that would surprise us. While her good 
young husband was intensely interested in his elec- 
tric railroad, the pale-faced bride was no less enter- 
prising, and certainly quite as successful, in the 
transportation peculiar to that date, known as the 
" Underground Railroad." It is like an echo to us 
of this free-breath day that a half -century ago the 
silence of night and the hush of foot and voice was 
the only security a slave had of his life in our 
beautiful New England. The inspiration which 
intensified the energies of Mrs. Farmer's life in 
1861-65, and resulted in the Mayday Fair, was the 
fire in her bones and heart when in 1845-46 she 
gave shelter now and again to man or woman of a 
black face and many lashes, creeping through 
Dover, en route to the realms beyond the reach of 
whips and hounds. 

Twice did she bring over her threshold and 
secrete beyond all discovery the fugitives who were 
"guided by the sweet north star." Once it was 
the man of ebony with a back scarred with most 
cruel lacerations. Again it was a woman, solitary, 
but eager for free air. She fed them, succored 
them, sent them on in the darkness of the night, 
and heard from them when the Canadian line had 
safely separated them from the danger of recovery. 
Once she discovered an actual case of slavery in 
New York City, and poured out her soul: — 



I3i 

''''Dear C. — I thought I should write Monday 
with the package; but I got completely roiled, and 
my blood has been at boiling heat ever since. I 
will tell you about it; and, if you do not say some- 
thing desperate, you have arrived at a strange state 
of grace. F. is boarding in New York with a 
family from the South. She did not know of this 
when she took her rooms. There are two colored 
children, a boy and a girl, who are slaves. One 
day last week the young girl was taken down cellar, 
every article of her clothing was taken off, and she 
was whipped dreadfully. Never in my life did any- 
thing touch me so near the quick as this does. 
What to do I know not. I have wept tears enough 
since I knew of that terrible lashing to wash away 
all the sins of that wicked family, if tears could do 
it; but I cannot yet pray, 'Father, forgive them.' 
Neither can I write you, dear child, any more now; 
for my heart keeps time and tune with my throb- 
bing brain. God bless you." 

When slavery received its death-blow, she said: 

"Did you ever realize what the glorified Lincoln 
did when he put his hand to the Emancipation 
Proclamation? God knew that he couldn't go to 
heaven too soon after that, and he was good not to 
keep him waiting for his reward. How I wish I 
could have seen the blessed Jesus when he said to 
Lincoln, 'Ye did it unto me! ' " 

In 1 86 1, the year never to be forgotten, she 
opened her honest thought to a friend : — 

"I was very much surprised that you for a 



moment thought that Richmond would be taken! 
Do you suppose God will bless this nation until 
it is purified? Xo. He will never give us peace 
until we are purged. We shall wade through a sea 
of blood before our feet stand upon the delectable 
mountains of peace and prosperity. If our army 
should be successful now, the Union would still be 
on its old basis, and the North would still roll 
slavery as a sweet morsel. This cannot be. The 
war is God's. No voice can bid his chariot wheels 
turn back. How can we ask for peace till we are 
willing to obey God's command, 'Let my people 
go', — not as a military necessity, but as a right! 
Justice is what our Father asks. If it is not given, 
it will be taken, and God's curse rest forever upon 
our guilty souls." 

In full sympathy with this letter, she again ex- 
presses herself in verse during that first bitter year 
of the Rebellion : — 

••IT AM GOD'S WAR." 

A lady missionary reports the following opinion of the war, 
as given by a colored woman ninety years old. who has just 
been relieved from the house of bondage. " Dis ain*t de 
Yankees' war, missus, nor de secesh war, nor de niggers' war. 
It am God's war; and he'll take care de right come, in spite 
'em all, dat's so, missus." 

Hurrah ! with glad and joyful shout 

For every blow that's given 
Which strikes a fetter from the slave, 

Our hands so long have riven. 
And in our blindness thought that God 

Would smile on us from heaven, 



133 

Till now it seems too much to hope 
This sin can be forgiven. 

O God of Justice and of Right, 

How dare we bow to pray ? 
Or hope, through Christ's dear, precious blood, 

We are his friends to-day, 
While clanking chains and iron bolts 

Lie all around our way. 
But on, still on, the work must go : 

No voice can bid it stay. 

"Dis ain't de niggers' war, dat's so/" 

She said, who now is free, 
Who bore the yoke for ninety years 

With patience, Lord, for thee, 
And waited with the trembling hope 

This day her eyes would see : 
Now fill ner soul with peace and joy, 

Blest fruits of liberty. 

" Dis war am God's, dat's so, missus, 

And he will yet take care 
De right shall come, in spite 'em all," 

In answer to the prayer 
Of those who wrestled oft with him, 

Who will their burdens bear. 
Oh, in this glorious work of God, 

Who would not have a share ? 

But if we stand aloof, and let 

The chariot wheels pass on, 
We soon shall hear the bondman's shout, 

The victory has been won ! 
Then we, alas ! may find too late 

The time to work is gone ; 
While on our brow God's curse shall rest 

For what we have not done. 



134 

When an "Underground Railroad " was no longer 
a need, Mrs. Farmer worked with prayer, faith, and 
effort to bless the freedmen, though at that very 
date her specific call was in the interest of the blue- 
coat boys : — 

" I have not forgotten your Fair table in behalf of 
the freedmen. Their claim upon us is real. I 
send with this a few articles which I hope will 
prove salable. If they bring a dime or a dollar, 
God will accept it. My heart is ready with sym- 
pathy, and large enough to take in all who have so 
long tasted the gall of bondage and worn the yoke 
of oppression. I feel like shouting, 'Glory to God 
in the highest,' when I note the strides of freedom. 
We know who leads us, and I long to see him face 
to face and thank him for the hour." 

Mrs. Farmer forwarded a prettily assorted box to 
the children of black faces at the Portsmouth, Va., 
schools; and Julia M. Bartlett, a teacher, sent her 
the following pleasant story: — 

" I teach a morning session of five hours, then 
after dinner a private pupil, the pastor of the Zion 
Baptist Church, at night a class of fifteen men. 
The work is very interesting. We watch the prog- 
ress of our pupils, and count the prospective results; 
but it is self-sacrificing, and a great drain on the 
physical and mental energies. I thank you for the 
kind sympathy of your words and works. I prize 
the works, for I have heard that you are a great 
invalid. May God sustain you in your love to the 
soldier and the freedman ! The pretty things in 



135 

the box I am holding up as rewards to scholars for 
punctuality and good behavior. They are a fine 
stimulus. A pretty doll I gave to Miss Draper for 
her room, the primary. She offered it to the one 
who should not be late or whisper or be spoken to 
for being out of order for a month; and little 
Georgia, a girl as white as myself and yet born a 
slave, received it. Rewards act admirably, and 
seem indispensable." 



XII. 

THE HISTORIC HOUSE (FRAMINGHAM). 

WHEN the heavenly Father has his eye upon 
the lambs of his fold, with special designs 
for them, each step is an advance. Each change of 
life and locality is an actual developing power. 
It proved wonderfully so to Mr. and Mrs. Farmer. 
The divine thought made it most natural and de- 
lightful for the one to magnify Him by simplifying 
and utilizing the mystical elements of nature, the 
other to open the fountains of love, and make every- 
body know and sensibly appreciate kindness and 
sympathy. The world is hard sometimes, and 
hearts are crusts. Mrs. Farmer's divine word and 
manner was to make a depressed, suffering, and 
even an outcast soul know that one at least loved 
him for Christ's sake; and in Christ's name pitied 
him and would fain bless him. So, when God 
opened new doors for this happy twain, each was an 
admittance and unfolding of the advancing thought 
of God; and the new steps were in the true direc- 
tion of the appointed path. 

At Dover the life and home were experiments. 
They had stood the test. Mrs. Farmer never 
regretted that in the very youngness and poverty of 



137 

days she blended all her interests and loves with 
her husband. "It is better," she said, u to begin 
with a limited substance, and each learn the art of 
accommodation to means or lack of means." 

And now, in the midst of Dover life and a very 
delightful circle of acquaintances, whose friendship 
was never to break, with the babe upon her bosom 
a joy as well as a care, it was evident that a distant 
removal was to be made. In 1847 F. O. J. Smith 
(of whom Mr. Farmer had purchased the wires for 
the electric railroad) was in telegraphic work, and 
he offered Mr. Farmer the position of examiner of 
wires between Boston and Worcester. At the same 
time Zimri Wallingford desired him to enter the 
machine shop at Dover. It is not singular that the 
young man leaned with a steady interest to tele- 
graphic work. Nor is it to be wondered at that the 
young wife was willing to forego the comfort she had 
received from the nearness and easiness of access to 
her old Eliot home and the mother's ever affection- 
ate heart and to her many and constant friends at 
Blackberry Hill and Great Falls. She could make 
any sacrifice, if so be her husband's brain could 
have wider scope, and the world begin to know him 
as her own intuitions apprehended him. She af- 
firmed therefore her willingness to enter with him 
into her distinctive part of telegraphic and inven- 
tive unfoldment, — a heartful sympathy and co- 
operation. 

It was decided to take a rent at Framingham in 
Massachusetts, a lovely town, half-way between 



133 

Boston and Worcester, and to compress themselves 
to the income of twenty-five dollars a month. The 
removal followed close upon the decision. Dec. 
21, 1847, they left Dover, and went first to Bos- 
cawen, and were present when the gentle Jane Farmer 
gave her hand and heart in marriage to the kindly 
and always affectionate Ephraim Little. Both are 
to-day in the realms beyond the sun, and never will 
know again the sorrows of a separation. New Year's 
Day, 1848, the new home began in Framingham; 
and "I do not like it " is all the word that the wife 
wrote in her diary, as she entered it, and probably 
that is the only expression of her dissimilation that 
she ever uttered. Among the many reminiscences 
which she told in her genial way was the advent 
into Framingham. The rented house belonged to 
Rev. Mr. Gale, an ex-Baptist clergyman, who newly 
painted the floors for their reception. This house 
could be seen en route from the depot by looking 
across the cemetery. As this point of view was 
reached, the young wife, tired with the journey, and 
with the babe folded upon her bosom, heard her hus- 
band's voice above the rattle of the wheels, " There's 
your new home, my dear." Her lifted eye fell upon 
the tombstones of the field- of sepulture; and the poor 
thing scarcely comprehended whether life at Fram- 
ingham was to be a preparation for her final pillow 
or an increase of strength, power, and blessing. 
But her never varying cheer gave her the smile in 
that moment; and, brief though her residence in 
Framingham, yet it was the very place that was to 



139 

give to her life eventually its richness and fulness 
of hopes, anticipations, cravings. 

It was at Framingham that the inventive genius 
of Mr. Farmer developed that fire alarm which, 
more than anything, will make his name a part of 
history. That tenement at Framingham, too, may 
yet be noted as one of the homes worthy of preser- 
vation. Nevertheless, it was a cheerless one the 
day the stranger wife entered it. The new paint of 
the floor stuck to her soles painfully. Because of 
some lack of mixative skill, it would not dry. 
Boards had to be laid down, and for days her house- 
keeperly ways were restricted to the length and 
breadth of the plank. To vary the step was to lose 
her slipper. The neighbors were not long in find- 
ing out that sunbeams multiplied by her coming, 
and they ceased not to live in the light of them. 

Professor Farmer's new duties, lying along the 
rails between Boston and Worcester, necessarily 
made him familiar with the engineers; and they in 
turn were not slow to appreciate the quickness and 
sparkle of his every-day wit and repartee, and an 
acquaintance with him came also to be an acquaint- 
ance with the bright little home, its cheers and 
blessings. The same charm of presence, kindness, 
and soulfulness, which made everybody her will- 
ing subjects, won from them the kindly little deed 
of a signal whistle when her Moses was upon the 
train. His work made the time of his return un- 
certain. It was late or early, as his duties held 
him. So these willing engineers gave the peculiar 



140 

signal, and she knew then in how many minutes the 
desired face would gTeet her. He came "across 
lots * ? from the station ; and on moonless nights it 
as a desolate way, like the haunt of owls, and the 
wifely anxiousness was ajar rill the well-known 
step touched the threshold. Then the evening 
lamp gave its golden glow, and the supper table 
was the culminated joy of the day. 

Do you suppose the heavenly Father will also sig- 
nalize to her the home-comings of others of her 
chosen ones; and, when they are borne upwards 
to the threshold, will the heart that never failed 
us here have a word of welcome 

■•Yrhe- :he Ar.gel :: the Sliai:^- 

Rests his feet on wave and shore, 
And our eyes grow dim with watching 

And our hearts faint at the oar. 
Happy is he who heareth 

The sU~al : : his release 
In the bells of the holy city. 

The :hhr.es : ::e^ pr^ze." 

In this winter :: 1847—48, when a storm of sleet 
had prostrated and broken the wires from Boston to 
Brighton, Mr. Farmer started on earliest train with 
insulators and ladders, and continued his labors till 
after the latest Saturday night train had passed 
homeward. He knew the anxious ear, ,-ye. and 
heart would be on the qui vive all the night 
through; and he started afoot for the welcome sure 
to meet him. Unexpectedly, a train of platform 
cars passed him, at the rate of twelve miles an 



141 

hour. It was the thought of a moment, and the 
venturesome creature threw his basket and ladder 
upon one, and then leaped upon another. Not a 
sparrow falls without God's notice, or we think 
Moses G. Farmer would have had an instantaneous 
ending of his earthly story. The right arm of God 
is of matchless safety; and even our darings he 
regards as the dash of a child, and saves us as a 
mother would, to do his further will. 

The winter evenings at Framingham left a holy 
and indelible impression. Comparative strangers, 
the trio were much alone; and side by side, though 
often in silence, the husband pursued his studies, 
and the wife sat with her babe in her arms, and 
read or watched with interest the face and the 
hand, as both moved and changed with some reve- 
lation or as a supposition was verified and became 
an established and tested fact. The researches, 
estimates, and calculations came thick and fast 
sometimes. One night, too weary to read, for the 
day had multiplied the housekeeper steps, the wife 
took the babe on one arm, and with the other hand 
she held the old-fashioned oil lamp to aid her hus- 
band in an experiment. It was an interesting trio. 
The pleased and watchful eye followed the investi- 
gations. The interest became like a balm, and the 
silence intensified the soothing and quieting power. 
The lamp drooped, and not only drooped, but 
dripped on the dress of the babe and its mother. 
The husband glanced from his work, and found the 
young, helpful, willing, but tired wife in a restful 



142 

sleep. The beauty of the picture was more to the 
loving eyes of the husband than the powers of 
electric flashes and wires. On many and many 
walls are the engraved representations of Alfred 
Elmore's painting of William Lee and his faithful 
wife and tiny babe, and the stocking loom. It is a 
thing of beauty. Some artistic brush will yet com- 
mit the similar scene in that Framingham sitting- 
room, at the almost midnight hour which was de- 
veloping and perfecting the renowned fire alarm. 
Some hours are eternal. When years had passed, 
and Professor Farmer's labors had been recognized, 
understood, and had given him a reputation, the dear 
wife recalled that winter night at Framingham, and 
wrote of it in one of her pleasant letters from her 
then Newport home : — 

"A gentleman has just been in and has asked for 
some account of Mr. Farmer for a book to be pub- 
lished, entitled w Rhode Island's Distinguished 
Sons.' What State will claim him next, do you 
think? Mr. Coffin was here a few days since; and, 
in crossing in the launch to Newport, the engineer 
inquired for Professor Farmer, and added, 'I am told 
that he was born in New Hampshire, and so she 
will be the State to have the honor of building him 
a monument. All the better for New Hampshire, 
but bad luck for Rhode Island.' Mr. Farmer is 
one of that man's saints." 

And to this bit of recital she adds : — 
"I want you to write the history of Mr. Farmer's 
life-long works, when you can stop your own labors 



143 

to do so. I have just expressed this wish to Mr. 
Farmer; and he says he shall want a picture in the 
book, — -a picture of myself with the baby Sarah on 
one arm and an oil lamp in the other hand, half- 
tipped over, with the oil dripping over the front of 
my dress, and I fast asleep. Won't that be a theme 
for Mr. Dow's canvas? But that is just what hap- 
pened when the first machine that was ever made 
to give an alarm of fire was being invented at South 
Framingham. I want Mr. Dow to make a drawing 
of Rev. Mr. Gale's house, for that is where the first 
fire alarm machine was built ; and the house in 
Pearl Street, our dear Eden at Salem, was the first 
house in the world ever lighted by electricity." 

When this reminiscence was written, thirty years 
after the invention of the fire alarm, Professor 
Farmer was in feeble days; and the faithful com- 
panion of his love and labors added : — 

"It is now impossible to crowd another thing 
into my busy, anxious life; for it is certainly an 
anxious one, and I cannot help it in Mr. Farmer's 
present feeble condition. I fully believe I have 
held him up by the sheer force of my will for the 
last three years, and I must still do this till God 
shows me that my work in this direction is no 
longer called for. He seems to be gaining, and 
my burdens are correspondingly lighter. He has 
grown in grace a great deal during his feebleness, 
though I did not think he could; for he has always 
been spiritually-minded. I, too, have grown more 
restful for leaning on the Strong Arm." 



144 

Truly was the word written that she "held him 
up by her will and heart," and not him alone. 
Hers was the God-granted power to sustain and 
manage the people and the hours of weakness, dark- 
ness, perplexity, until she went where the light of 
the eternal dissipates the shadows; but for all this 
she had the compensation of her husband's love: — 

"My blessed Moses hears me read letters to him 
sometimes; but his mind will be so full of inven- 
tions that he often forgets what I am doing for his 
entertainment, and is too abstracted by the time I 
finish to say a word. But he loves me, and that is 
worth more than all the world to me." 

Thus passed her days and her ways at Framing- 
ham, a brief home; for in six months (July 27, 
1848) a newer life and a broader one be*gan in 
Salem, the quaint city of peace, and to Mrs. Far- 
mer a home of memories for which only the pen 
of God and the pages of the Book of Life are 
sufficient. 



XIII. 

THE CITY OF PEACE, I 



JULY 17, 1848, Mrs. Farmer made this brief 
entry in her diary: "Gerrish went to Boston 
this morning. This afternoon he has gone to 
Warren. He had a letter from Mr. Hudson to-day, 
who wishes him to take the office in Salem." 

July 29 she laconically adds : "Well, we are here, 
and almost in the graveyard. We moved to Salem 
the 27th." 

This was the beginning of the life in the inter- 
esting and historical city which was to cover the 
fourth of a century, a life which was eventually to 
tell upon public influence and make the name 
familiar. 

Professor Farmer was appointed operator in the 
telegraph office, which was at that date in the block 
of the East India Marine Society, where also were 
the post-office and two banks. The salary of the 
young man was but $350, and seemed a meagre 
income for hearts of natural benevolence and sym- 
pathy, and for hands never empty when Want stood 
at people's doors. 

The young couple had never been pledged to 
others or to themselves for missionary work, but 



146 

they had begun life with a native understanding 
that they actually belonged to the public woe as 
well as its weal. Hence the weekly income was 
always associated with kindnesses to be done. 

The first rented rooms in Salem were on Howard 
Street; and no wonder Mrs. Farmer wrote "almost 
into a graveyard," for directly before her window 
was an old and now closed cemetery. Not a week 
went by but funeral trains passed within the gates. 
Mrs. Farmer would sometimes speak of the six 
months of her life on that street as prolific of most 
intense sympathetic suffering, not because so many 
died, but because people were buried with so much 
indifference. With her intense love and her cling- 
ing and worshipful nature, she could not compre- 
hend how families could pass into that field of 
graves with the coffined forms, and be so cool about 
it. Time and again she questioned, "Are we of so 
little need that, when we die, we are simply buried 
as a matter of necessity?" 

"It would have broken my heart to have lived 
another year on that street," she would say. Death 
came to the very door-post of their own little tene- 
ment; for the baby Sarah rolled down the stairs, 
and the mother-heart not only throbbed with fright, 
but with reason also, for the fall was followed by a 
brain fever, which seemed for a while to antago- 
nize the little life and devour it. But God has his 
definite purposes ; and his plan was that the child 
should be given anew to her mother, and prove the 
light of the home. When one goes steadily to the 



147 

gate of the grave, and is then turned back, the re- 
deemed life is usually a distinct power for good. 
A specific work is accomplished for which the life 
was renewed. 

Years after the entrance upon Salem joys and 
griefs Mrs. Farmer published a few memories of 
her long life there, entitled "Looking Backward," 
and spoke of her first days and friends. Its opening 
paragraph was : — 

"March 7, 1891. When one of the first tele- 
graph operators of Salem entered the city with his 
young wife more than twoscore years ago, he had 
to leave her sitting, with her babe in her arms, 
upon a stick of timber where the depot now is, 
while he went to the Essex House to get a carriage 
to take her to their new home on Howard Street. 
The depot was then scarcely roofed in, and the 
sound of the saw and hammer was heard on every 
side. It seemed a cheerless welcome to the tired 
mother on that hot summer day; but, through the 
efforts of kind, helpful friends, who were met on 
every side, dear old Salem soon took on a more 
agreeable aspect than that seen from her unfin- 
ished depot." 

Of the multitude of friends there was a woman 
who, won by the lovingness of her face, clung to 
Mrs. Farmer as long as her old life lasted. It was 
Hannah Bowland. She was the first to greet her 
in her new Salem home, the first to ask her to the 
church she loved, the first to talk with her of the 
poor and discouraged who needed kind words and 



148 

right hands. The memory of the just nourishes 
when they sleep in dust, and the mention of 
Hannah Bowland's name brings up ten thousand 
memories and traditions. Mrs. Farmer kept the 
photographed face of this singular fellow-helper 
near her as long as she lived. There is an inspir- 
ing power in a face, and many a noble deed has 
been wrought because of the impulse given by the 
pictured canvas or the photograph. Mrs. Farmer 
continued her narrative of earliest Salem friends 
as follows : — 

"The first caller in that quiet, unpretending 
home in Howard Street ushered herself in through 
the back door at high noon with the simple 
announcement, " I am Hannah Bowland, a member 
of Howard Street Church; and I hope you will 
excuse me for coming in at your back door, as I am 
in a hurry." The stranger's heart was won at 
once, and a friendship formed that day which ended 
only when the beloved teacher entered the school 
above. She was one of the truest women, and her 
memory is still most reverently cherished. Her 
faith in God as a hearer of prayer was unbounded, 
as the following incident will testify: One morn- 
ing her scholars were gathering in the Walnut 
Street school-room, when a message came that one 
of her friends was not expected to live through the 
day. She rang the bell. The children were soon 
in their seats; and then she told them of the life 
that seemed drifting away, but which she still 
hoped God would prolong in answer to prayer. 



i 4 9 

Then, kneeling with her scholars around her, 'the 
fervent effectual prayer' that 'availeth much' was 
heard in heaven. Her friend's life hung trembling 
in the balance through the day; but the next morn- 
ing hope took the place of despair, and, when the 
children gathered in the school-room, they were 
told by their teacher that the friend for whose life 
they had pleaded so earnestly the day before was 
better, and expected to live. One little girl sprang 
up, saying, 'O, Miss Bowland, God did hear us 
yesterday, didn't he?' 

"Who of us can say what effect this had upon 
the lives of those children in the faith of their later 
years? From that day until the close of the school 
forever, the name of the teacher's friend was 
remembered daily in the morning prayer of those 
dear little children." 

If one should look to-day into the Puritan face of 
the pictured Hannah Bowland, would he think it 
possible that ever a romance was associated with 
her name and story? Salem people who remember 
her would surely answer, "No" and speak only of 
the bluntness and severity of words and ways. Yet 
her austerity was probably not of the heart, which 
went out after every form of suffering and sorrow. 
It was owing doubtless to the religious atmosphere 
which she breathed. No written record of the good 
woman's deeds is preserved, save that made by the 
recording angel; and his page will be the immortal 
story, which will be told and read when the time 
fully comes for the revelation of the white-robed 
and redeemed. 



150 

Poor Hannah, noble Hannah! Yes, life and love 
once made her happy and cheery as the morning 
song of a bird. She was betrothed to a young 
clergyman. The day of his ordination came, and 
he naturally desired the wedding day to speedily 
follow. The mother of Hannah grew suddenly 
feeble, and apparently a stretch of helpless years 
was before her. Hannah, her only child, decided 
that her first duty was to her decrepit mother. It 
cost her an unspeakable struggle; but, with the 
firmness and squareness and extreme common sense 
of her day, she told the young man her decision. 
He pleaded to wait with her. Her pronounced 
word to his every argument was A 7 o, and they sepa- 
rated. A few months later came the rumor, natural 
enough, maybe, that he was to marry a bright, suit- 
able girl ; and Hannah recognized it as the proper 
thing, and nobody knew her hidden grief but her 
Lord. Again a few months, and her mother was 
dead, dead sooner than human conjecture; and, 
going into the sanctuary, Hannah found her old 
lover in the pulpit as the preacher of the day. 
When the sermon was read, he sought her pew, and 
asked permission to call next morning. Hannah, 
supposing he wished to tell her of the joys of his 
new relations, quietly rode out of town in the early 
stage; and he, discovering her withdrawal, took it 
for granted that she was broken in her heartful in- 
terest in him, so he, too, went away. And after 
many years of bachelor life he at length married 
an excellent woman, and quite soon died. The 



i5i 

sequel of the story was that the rumored engage- 
ment, always believed by Hannah, was a fabrica- 
tion; and two devoted hearts were made hungry for 
a lifetime. 

This excellent Miss Bowland was a member of 
the Howard Street Church ; and, through her solici- 
tation, the Farmers attended it until it became 
extinct. It was a church of peculiar history, and 
one characteristic was its pronounced anti-distillery 
and anti-slavery views. One of its ministers, the 
Rev. George B. Cheever, will forever be remem- 
bered for his authorship of " Deacon Giles' Distill- 
ery," for which he was mobbed. Dr. Lyman 
Beecher, too, in his extreme years, preached several 
months in this pulpit. 

A letter of Hannah Bowland to Mrs. Farmer is 
so very like its writer that for memory's sake we 
copy it here : — 

" My dear Mrs. Farmer, — Your precious gift to 
me on your natal day was exceedingly grateful, and 
would be reciprocated, were it not for want of the 
pecuniary; but, though minus the silver and gold, 
the heart prompts to congratulations to yourself, 
your husband, and daughter. I will desire that 
your useful life, with your husband's, may be pro- 
longed to a hundred years in the full vigor of men- 
tal activity, and cheered by your daughter, a fruit- 
ful vine, bringing with her the children whom God 
will give with their children, so that a numerous 
progeny may rise up to call you blessed, and pre- 
sent their love ' tokens to Grandma and Great- 



152 

grandma Mabelle on your ever-returning birthday 
anniversary; and also, in lieu of a better expres- 
sion, would desire your acceptance of Cowper, 
whose value may be enhanced by knowing that holy 
martyrs of abolition, now in glory, have handled 
with their hands and read with their eyes these 
volumes. Travelers tell us that on ascending high 
mountains the stars from these lofty heights seem 
to be higher, brighter, than when seen from the 
plains; so your poetical and cultivated talent will 
see more in one hour's reading than I might in my 
slow development in a year. Dr. Cheever said 
every Christian ought to read Cowper once a month. 

"The scholars have come, and are scattering all 
my crude thoughts by letting off their nervous fluid 
vociferously; so, as usual, in haste, yours for long 
life, with your continued activity in the cause of 
Christian philanthropy. — Hannah Bowland." 

And, when the later days of the Rebellion came, 
and Mrs. Farmer's sick hands were making ready 
for the May-day Fair, this same grateful Hannah 
Bowland sent what was once a possession of her 
English father, and described it. "A box, covered 
with the skin of a rattlesnake, brought from India 
in Haskett Derby's vessel by a Revolutionary offi- 
cer, who lost a limb in the service of his adopted 
country." Within the box was a slip: "Get much 
for this. It is the sacrifice of a beloved Benja- 
min." Yes, Hannah Bowland willingly sacrificed 
to her Lord ; and her name shall have praise for his 
sake. 



153 

Mrs. Farmer makes note of a call made one day 
in 1863 by this sterling woman: "The last time 
Miss Bowland prayed with me, she said, when 
pleading with God for Birdie's early consecration: 
'We want her to be thy child, and thus fitted for 
the holy cause of missions. Make the parents will- 
ing to give her up to that holy work, for which she 
will be so eminently fitted.' How much I have 
thought of that prayer and of him who gave his only 
Son!" 

Perhaps, as the reminiscences already quoted in 
part contain memories of other sheep of the Howard 
Street fold, we may glean more, though the para- 
graphs cover more ground than we have yet reached 
in the story of Mrs. Farmer's valued life: — 

"Miss Bowland's love for and devotion to How- 
ard Street Church were deep and intense. The clay 
she called so unceremoniously at the new home in 
Howard Street it was to present the claims of her 
beloved church for consideration. It was poor, and 
needed all the help that could be given by new- 
comers. She spoke also of a picnic to be held by 
the church near the Derby farm the coming week, 
and invited the mother to attend. The invitation 
was accepted for the sake of seeing the people of 
that struggling church; and the young stranger 
was accompanied thither by one of the deacons, 
Thaddeus Osgood. How the heart thrills to-day as 
the name is recalled of this disciple of the meek 
and lowly Jesus, this friend of the poor and unfor- 
tunate! It was the privilege of but few in Salem to 



154 

follow him to the abodes of poverty and wretched- 
ness, as the writer did; and, if time and strength 
permitted, a story could be told of how he saved a 
family of seven from starvation with six cents ! His 
reward is on high with him who said, 'Come, ye 
blessed of my Father, for I was an hungered, and ye 
gave me meat.' 

"Turning our thoughts back to the picnic, we 
see happy people going hither and thither, enjoying 
Nature's panorama and the soul in it. Among 
them was the stranger, unknown to all. While 
straying about, she came to a young mother sitting 
on a rock, trying to soothe a tired, restless child. 
The eyes of the two mothers met, and in this silent 
greeting a solemn compact was formed that death 
itself cannot annul. The friend that day found has 
been a 'bower of strength' in every hour, day or 
night, when help was needed, always giving of 
herself in every time of trial, having even then the 
wisdom and judgment possessed by few mothers 
until their children are grown up about them. 

"Not long after this meeting a cloud began to 
gather over the stranger's Eden home The death 
angel folded its silent wings above it ; and day and 
night, through leafing June, a frail little life hung 
in the balance. Then it was that the fainting 
courage was held up by the new-found friend, who 
was always near with some strong, courageous word. 
When at last there seemed to be no longer any 
hope, she said: 'I have not believed yet that the 
baby will die or that the last thing has been done 



155 

to save her life. We will still keep on praying, 
and God will hear, and if it is for the best will 
show us what to do.' Dear brave heart! God was 
even then revealing his power to save; and a mir- 
acle was wrought when the beloved physician 
said, 'God be praised, the child will live!' 

"Through all the sickness that preceded and fol- 
lowed these days the husband of the brave woman, 
who had never failed in hope or courage, was also 
the good angel who came to the door three times 
daily to ask if there were anything which he could 
do. How much they did to bridge over these days 
of hope and despair Heaven only knows! 

u The life given back has thus far been a useful 
and God-fearing one; and, when words of grateful 
appreciation were spoken, he who helped to sustain 
the fainting hearts was wont to say, 'I have had my 
reward for anything that I seemed to do in the good 
which is trying to do.' 

" Years later Death came to that Eden home, 
and took from it an only son, who finished his life- 
work on earth in one day, and then passed on to 
higher service above. The precious baby form was 
clothed for the last time by the dear, helpful hands 
of her who for these many years had been indeed a 
ministering angel to this household. 

"God bless her! is the tearful prayer of our 
hearts to-day as she sits, widowed and bereft in 
her home, surrounded by brave, noble children, on 
whom the father has leaned through his declining 
years. The blow has fallen so suddenly that it is 



i 5 6 

hard to realize that this dear friend is forever be- 
yond our mortal sight, but our hearts are comforted 
with the thought that our loss is his eternal gain. 
4 The memory of the just is blessed,' and his virtues 
are worthy of imitation. It can be truly said of 
him that he was an 'honest man, the noblest work 
of God.' 

" In all our sorrow, the thought comes to us as a 
solace that the chain of this beautiful friendship 
with him and his family has no missing nor broken 
links; and, if the power were given to-day, how 
thankfully would we lay an unfading and immortal 
wreath of love, gratitude, and affection upon the 
new-made grave of the friend beloved! — 



& j 



BENJAMIN ARCHER GRAY. 

Who lived to lend a helping hand 
In every cause he thought was right; 

Who dared to face the tide of wrong, 
And turn it back with all his might ; 

Who never cringed with abject fear 
When others thought the day was lost, 

But hurled defiance at the foe, 

And never paused to count the cost. 

His heart was tender as a child's 

When Pity touched it with her wand, 

And we who loved him best could see 
The heart went with the helping hand. 

The good he did while here on earth 
Lies far beyond our mortal ken, 

But History's pen will write his name 
As one who loved his fellow-men." 



157 

Of that strong character, at the time of his 
death, Mrs. Farmer wrote: "You will probably 
never know how I valued Mr. and Mrs. Gray. 
He has been one of the few men I have been 
thankful to call my friend. I never met one just 
like him. The nearest to him was my own and 
now sainted father." He certainly was a man 
who had the courage of his convictions, and his 
peers of Howard Street parish were all angular in 
character, firm in convictions, pronounced aboli- 
tionists; and because of this a Salem Christian 
said, " It was a good idea to have such a church as 
a reservoir of peculiar men." 'But, if it were a 
despised church, its members have left an impress; 
and principles tell if their advocates turn to dust. 
In this little company Mrs. Farmer became a life- 
long blessing to such women as Hannah Bowland, 
Jane McAllister, and the whole company of whom 
Paul would have said, "Assist them in whatsoever 
business they have need, for they have been suc- 
corers of many." A little poem having reference 
to a church gathering was published by Mabelle 
among her earlier Salem inklings: — 

THE MYSTERIOUS LADY AT THE HOWARD 
STREET FAIR. * 

Amid a gay and joyous throng, 

Where youth and beauty shone, 
Was seen a form bowed down with years, 

Whose morn of life was gone. 
But still upon that aged brow 
The trace of beauty lingers now. 



i 5 8 

She glided in so like a ghost 
We knew not whence she came; 

And just as silently she went, 

That none might know her name. 

If unseen hands her basket bore, 

We know it went, and nothing more. 

(And this would be our choice through life, 

Had we the power to-day 
To come and go, do good to all, 

Drop flowers along the way, 
Then, as we mount the golden stair, 
Leave at the foot the name we bear.) 

Though days have passed, we see her yet, 

And bless her for the smile 
With which she took our offered hand 

And gladdened us awhile, 
Then turned to those who, waiting near, 
Would catch a glimpse of one so dear. 

Thus other lips her name will bless, 

While for her weal they pray, 
That God will guide her through the tomb 

To realms of endless day. 
May his sweet peace on thee descend 
Like evening dews, my aged friend. 



The Howard Street home was speedily ex- 
changed; and, before the many years of residence 
at the Eden Home of Pearl Street, two others be- 
came temporary resting-places, — one on Bridge 
Street, the other on Church Street. In these 
shelters, with the growing fellowship of the people 
who "labored much in the Lord," Mrs. Farmer was 
not slow in finding her level. Her missionary life 
began. 



XIV. 

EDEN HOME, 1 848-65. 

EDEN HOME, blessed are its memories! The 
story of it can never be written, and yet it is 
indelible on hearts below and in the Book of Life 
above. It was the first homelike place into which 
Mrs. Farmer's whole being nestled after leaving her 
mother's roof and bosom. Her previous shelters 
had been transient. She knew they would break, 
and the charm of association was not with them. 
At Eden it was different. She had the conviction 
of permanency as she stepped on its threshold. 
Forty years ago the city had not crowded its way 
into Pearl Street; and her newly selected retreat 
was therefore a breath of rural freshness, and at the 
same time within easy reach of church, trains, 
market, of life in general. u Oh, my sunsets!" 
she would say as she looked out of her windows at 
the unhampered view of all the westering skies. It 
was a charming outlook, — that western one. A 
gentle slope, with its shade of locusts, stretched to 
the rim of the North River; and in the distance was 
the historic bridge, with its flagstaff, where the red- 
coats of Revolutionary days were foiled in their 
Sunday search for- Salem guns and powder. One 



i6o 



could almost hear the echo of old Nurse Tarrant's 
voice of rebuke as she bade General Leslie go 
back, and cease to break the peace of the Sabbath. 
Mrs. Farmer gave a pen picture of this divine 
home in a letter to Mrs. Souther, of Hingham: — 

"The air was fragrant with June roses when my 
beloved took me to a charmed spot on the banks of 
the North River. It was in the City of Peace, and 
beyond its streets of noise and bustle. A green 
field was the background of the beautiful picture, 
and the placid river beyond reflected the blue of the 
sky. The birds made their nests so near the win- 
dows of my room that I could hear them whispering 
to their young as they came and went for the morn- 
ing meal or were rocked by the evening winds, 
which came as a lullaby to them, and fell also as a 
benediction upon a brow and cheek flushed for the 
first time in many years with a tint of health. In 
front of that home was a field of waving grass, where 
the little ground sparrows delighted to hide their 
nests. At the right was the street and at the left a 
field, which stretched to another street parallel to 
Pearl, a fruit orchard and garden, beautiful as the 
eye could wish to rest upon." 

The "brow and cheeks were flushed," as Mrs. 
Farmer writes it, one little year, a gracious season 
of comparative health; and then she adds: — 

"When the sweet June roses blossomed again, 
I was hovering between life and death. The beauty 
of the outward world was unchanged, but dear, lov- 
ing eyes were too anxiously watching to mark it. 















' 



i6i 



My Birdie was then three years old; and how often 
she used to stand by my bed and tell me of the 
flowers and the birds in her lisping tones of love, 
for she had a heart to love everything God had 
made, and she could then, as now, find beauty even 
in a pebble at her feet and in any blade of grass 
that drank the dews of heaven! For years hopes 
a ad fears alternated, until the year before my angel 
baby Clarence came (1859). Then without any 
apparent reason the hue of health rested upon my 
cheek, making me look, as my dear Gerrish would 
say, just like myself. For months I called myself 
perfectly well. Then the strength I had so de- 
lighted in waned; and for six months before my 
babe was given to me I could not leave my bed. 
Of the agony which sealed those months of suffer- 
ing with such a sacred gift God only can know, but 
the joy of being the mother of an angel compen- 
sates. Three more years passed, the cup filled to 
the brim with the waters of Marah. I do not think 
I could have lived, with all my faith in God, if it 
had not been for his inspiration of the desire to 
help in the saving of my country (1861-65). It 
seemed to me I must not die until she was re- 
deemed and purified." 

Those earliest days at Eden Home will always 
remain to Mrs. Farmer's friends a most pleasurable 
memory. More indeed might she have added of 
the outside and interior fascinations of her home. 
The open field before its door gave a sense of room 
and freedom of breath which she could heartfully 



l62 



appreciate, as did also her loved ones. Not yet 
had the brick sidewalks reached the length of the 
street ; and the house was approached therefore by 
the foot-worn path, like a country way. How rest- 
ful was Eden without! When it was only a mem- 
ory to her, she greatly desired her young friend, the 
promising artist, Arthur W. Dow, to give, if he 
could, upon canvas the old scenes which were the 
delight of her eye; and her pen, if not her brush, 
gave another picture : — 

"Over the door was a large trellis with running 
roses on one side and honeysuckles on the other. 
In the yard was one of my flower-beds, the slatted 
fence bordering one side of the yard and the grassy 
plot the other, with a wide path between. By a 
window next the street was a large locust. I 
planted it when it was but a baby locust. When we 
moved into the house, Birdie was just as tall as the 
largest locust in the field, and we lived there to 
see the trees grow so tall as to be noticed above the 
house. Dear, blessed Eden Home! Oh, if the 
walls could talk, what a revelation there would be! 
I believe nothing is recorded that the angels in 
glory may not see. The life that I thought so 
wasted then I sometimes hope may be like the 
beautiful tapestry rugs, woven all on the wrong 
side, and only that side open to human eyes. It 
may be that God will look upon the other side, and 
see threads that he can bless. 

U I know just how little I have done; but I do 
not dwell upon such things as I used to, but trust 



163 

that God will accept the desire to do, where the 
effort has been a seeming failure. No home on 
earth can ever be to me what Eden was." 

These outward glimpses only shadow the delights 
of the home within. If you walk under the roses 
and honeysuckles, you will cross a threshold bap- 
tized with the beauty of the Lord, the Martha and 
Mary and Lazarus abode, where Christ centres his 
thought and love. I wonder if there ever was 
another shelter like the Eden of No. 12 Pearl 
Street? It is not there now. The arm of trade 
and gain has gripped it. The workshop and tene- 
ment have crowded in. It has lost its beauty and 
charm, but the memory of it is everlasting. The 
one attraction of that Eden life was the singular, 
sympathetic voice, heart, life, and power of Mrs. 
Farmer. And yet in her self-forgetful way she 
once wrote to another: — 

"When the secrets of Eden Home are unfolded, 
what a surprise it will be to you to know how much 
you have done there for Jesus, that which will 
reach far, far beyond time! Oh, those blessed 
years! Never pass that house without a 'Thank 
God' in your heart for all that Mabelle passed 
through beneath that sacred roof. You say truly, 
'Sorrow has been there.' But some leaves are 
never fragrant till they are bruised. 

" The wound that bleeds, the tears that flow, 
May bathe the Saviour's feet; 
And he can make a suffering life 
For any' service meet. 



164 

"Dear, blessed Eden Home, my heart thrills at 
all its precious memories! Dear feet stepped there 
whose lightest tread was music to my soul. I shall 
hear those footfalls again on the golden floor. 
Friends long tried and true have been welcome 
there, and they wait to meet me in the star-gemmed 
road to Father's house." 

Yes, it would be very interesting to count the 
people who centred there for the good to be 
wrought. Her dearly loved Rev. and Mrs. Beaman 
(of Howard Street Church) knew the path well. 
How tenderly she loved them both! Mrs. Beaman 
was one of her saints ; and, when this dear woman 
was glorified, on the margin of her Bogatsky, Mrs. 
Farmer penciled: "Feb. 22, 1875. Mrs. Beaman's 
birthday in heaven. An angel now, and little less 
while here." At March 26 she writes : "My dear 
Mrs. Beaman's birthday on earth. She is very dear 
to us all." Indeed, she was very dear at Eden, and 
to everybody besides. 

And Michael Carlton, that tall, gaunt frame and 
benevolent eye, found Eden Home one of the places 
where " Lend a Hand " was always the sure watch- 
word, even though the King's Daughters were not 
then a fact. How well Ave remember the tender 
word and care to a young and dying Mary, over 
whose welfare this man of God assumed a guard- 
ianship when others fled from her, — a poor girl, 
fallen and disowned, but gathered up into this mis- 
sionary heart and care! He had only to tell of 
the young creature's sorrow, when Eden Home 



165 

smoothed the last pillow, and followed her to the 
grave. No wonder that Mrs. Farmer wrote of the 
saintly man : — 

"We may never expect to find again a Michael 
Carlton; for, when God requires any special and 
peculiar work of his children, he fits them pre- 
eminently for it. In good Mr. Carlton (as in dear 
Father Cleveland, of Boston, who is still going 
about doing good, though now in the ninetieth year 
of his age) were and are qualities so harmoniously 
blended that the help of even woman would seem 
to mar the beauty of their lifework. 

"When the Master's voice was heard, 'Come up 
higher,' it was as joyfully answered by the ever- 
faithful Mr. Carlton, as it always had been through 
a long and useful life; and he entered upon his 
rest and reward. That his mantle may fall upon 
some one in our midst should be our unceasing 
prayer, while we earnestly endeavor to profit by 
examples so rare and worthy of imitation." 

The dear nonagenarian, Father Cleveland, of 
Boston, was a visitor there. Time and again the 
benevolent face and voice and blessing were within 
those dedicated walls, and his wife often accom- 
panied him. 

Very like unto Hannah Bowland for goodness and 
zeal was Miss Sarah Kimball, for a year co-opera- 
tive with Michael Carlton's mission. She was of 
Ipswich, and of Puritan character. Almost as soon 
as her year's work among the Salem poor began, 
she exclaimed one day, "I have found a jewel, the 



1 66 



happiest heart and hearthstone in all the city." 
She could not forbear to share this newly discov- 
ered blessedness with her friends, and she carried 
to Eden those who needed its homelike influences 
and cheer. 

Over that threshold, too, stepped Rebecca R. 
Pomeroy, that gentlewoman of the soldiers' pallets, 
that comforter and blessing to little Willie, the 
dying boy of our own Abraham Lincoln, and later 
the matron of the Orphan Girls at Newton. How 
beautiful her face, her voice, her spirit! These 
two daughters of the Lord loved each other, and 
corresponded to the end; and, when Rebecca 
Pomeroy had gone to see him face to face, Mrs. 
Farmer in her tears said : — 

"I was thankful they draped the dear old flag 
around Mrs. Pomeroy's coffin; and I hope, too, that 
her precious body was wrapped in the stars and 
stripes that were so dear to her. When I was so 
near the angels' home in 1863, I asked Mr. Farmer 
to let my winding sheet be the flag for which my 
soldiers were fighting. I thought my body would 
rest the sweeter if the stars were folded over my 
heart ; and I asked him to let another flag be draped 
about my coffin. My dear ones will do this for me 
when the sufferings of this life are over." 

Elisabeth Comstock sat by Mrs. Farmer's side 
with her friendly "thee" and "thou"; and how 
hallowed her messages, too, when the Spirit moved 
her pen as well as her voice! On a slip of paper 
she mailed a message, brief, and yet dear because 
the Spirit moved it : — 



i6 7 

" My dear Friend, — May the peace of God that 
passeth all understanding be thy blessed portion in 
all thy physical weakness. The Eternal God is 
thy refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting 
Arms. May it be so to the utmost verge of life is 
the prayer of thy affectionate friend, Elisabeth L. 
Comstock." 

Clara Barton, with her great life and generous 
and positive benefactions, came into touch with 
this home, though the twain did not meet face to 
face until after Eden had been exchanged for the 
great, old Linden Castle, as we shall see in future 
pages: but, catching inspirations from the loving 
atmosphere of Eden life, it is not strange that she 
wrote in the daughter's autograph book: — 

Will I write in your book ? my dear friend, 

Can you ask of me ? 
Yes, as willing a line as ever was penned, 

But I write for three : — 
The mother, who taught me long to love her 

Through painful years, 
Till I almost dreaded the angels above her 

Had wiped her tears ; 
The father, who gave to the groping world 

The light of his skill, 
Like a tossing ship close reefed and furled, 

Majestic stil. ; 
And thou, my child, of both the light, 

■ So dear, so true, 
My name in richest, purest love, I write 

For you. 

Clara Barton. 

In the early days of the Rebellion, when Eden 
Home was a name familiar in many a soldier's 



i68 



camp and to scores of godly helpers of the war, no 
influence upon Mrs. Farmer was more grateful than 
the presence and voice of Miss Eliza A. Story and 
of her sister, Miss Henrietta. Mrs. Farmer was 
always too intent upon the benedictions of life, the 
hunger that was somehow to be satisfied, to be wor- 
shipful of the person. She admired beauty and 
grace. She noted it as quickly as the eye fell upon 
it; but her foremost thought was of the open door 
to help, the uplift of the life. Everybody was to 
be saved, if possible. As she said herself, " I am 
an admirer of beauty in art, nature, and life; but 
I want all my home surroundings to minister to 
the wants of the soul and body. Things made only 
for show give me a heart-throb, and I do not like 
people any better than things who are made for no 
real use." But in the Misses Story, Mrs. Farmer 
found a fascination; and she would say, "Miss 
Henrietta is a queen." The kindest sympathy 
existed between Miss Eliza and her own benevolent 
heart, and nobody was such a power to her in her 
labor for her army boys. With Miss Eliza at her 
right hand, Mrs. Farmer was sure of her fair for 
the soldiers, wounded and sick. At March 17, in 
her book of daily texts, Mrs. Farmer writes : "Dear 
Grandpa Story went home this morning, aged 
eighty-nine years, six months, twenty-eight days"; 
and at June 30, "Dear Henrietta Story is with her 
father. Gladness for her, sorrow for us." Years 
later Miss Eliza completed the home circle above. 
Thus from 1848 onward, through the war days of 



169 

1861-65, name after name appears linked with the 
joys as well as the shadows of that never-to-be-for- 
gotten Eden, the place of all places in Salem, the 
City of Peace. We can see to-day that simple but 
always cheerful parlor, its carpet of green and 
crimson velvet tapestry, its chairs of hair, Professor 
Farmer, the melody of the house, often at the piano, 
and oftener absorbed in those scientific explorations 
which were more than song or diet. Sickness 
came, sorrow, death, agony ; but it was always Eden 
Home. It was the abode of the Christ, and his 
sweetness was the breath of the house forever. 
Blessed Eden ! glad are we that its name and savor 
will pervade the pages of this book as well as the 
zeal and fervor of scores of lives forever and ever. 

And we should not do justice to that home of 
God if we did not copy a register which Mrs. Far- 
mer's pen made of her husband's inventive labors 
within it. At Framingham, as we have already 
noted, the first fire-alarm machine was invented. 
The progressive labors of Professor Farmer made the 
Eden Home to be historic by his inventions, as well 
as holy because of its constant benevolences. 
From a letter whose leaves have been partly lost or 
mislaid we copy her wonderful account of her hus- 
band's toils in perfecting the fire-alarm telegraph. 
Later in the volume will be found the illumination 
of this house by electricity. Of the fire alarm she 
says : — 

" If there was ever a work on earth that was of 
God, the fire-alarm telegraph is of his creating 



I/O 

power. The year of its building was my first tan- 
gible hold upon God as a Present Help. Not a step 
was taken that his help was not sought. I say we, 
not from any possible help I could be to Mr. Far- 
mer in perfecting his work, but because we lifted it 
up together to God. All I could do individually 
was to show him by my interest in all he was doing 
and by my love and sympathy for him that I would 
help him if I could. My faith in his final success 
was absolute. From the first hour that I held the 
lamp for him to work by, I knew the thing was of 
God, and would not come to naught. You will not 
wonder that, when the glittering prize was within 
our reach, we could give it up to God and the 
world without even a wish to be linked with it if 
God saw fit to take us then and there out of the 
work. It may seem strange to you that I should 
still say we, but it would not if you only knew how 
much of my very life was absorbed by it. I was 
then sick and suffering, confined almost to my room 
a greater part of the time; and yet there was never 
a night after Mr. Farmer began his work on the fire- 
alarm telegraph that he did not get up in the night 
to make drawings or notes of something that came 
to him that might be of use in his work, and, if I 
was able to leave my bed, it was my invariable cus- 
tom to get up and sit with him. If I was too sick 
to do that, he always sat down by the side of my 
bed; and I have seen him sit there and work until 
the veins in his forehead stood out like cords. 
What could I have done then but for my belief that 



171 

it was God's work, and that he would help us? Oh, 
if the walls of our sweet Eden Home could only 
speak, what a story they would tell! The angels 
of God held their nightly vigils with us; and, as 
night after night we knelt there together in the 
midnight hour, and begged God for the help no 
human hand could give " [the concluding sheets of 
this letter are missing]. 



XV. 



SCATTERED SEED. 



WHEN Mrs. Farmer entered the home on Pearl 
Street, her name had become familiar to the 
poor of its neighborhood. She had grown abundant 
in labor, even during her brief stay at the residence 
of Bridge Street, not far away. It is remembered 
most tenderly of her that she had hardly sufficient 
time to arrange the house to her domestic taste 
before the knowledge of a neglected wife and her 
little brood became known to her. If the husband 
spent his children's bread for beer, it was no reason 
that the children should be hungry. When winter 
came and the fire went out, it was no reason that 
the little lambs should be left in the cold. So 
Mrs. Farmer began her efforts to reclaim the erring 
man and to bless his bruised wife. Many a time 
did she take a basket of bread, and her co-operative 
husband a basket of coal and an armful of wood, 
and the two thus furnished carried warmth and 
succor. 

One entire year she labored with an inebriate. 
She wrote to him, talked with him, prayed with him 
and for him; and God subdued him. He bartered 
his shoes for rum. He walked barefoot into places 



173 

where people would not venture unless decently 
dressed; but, coatless, bootless, enslaved, he was 
touched by the divine finger, and never did a 
gladder woman live than was Mrs. Farmer when he 
became a new creature in Christ and the appetite 
for rum had been paralyzed. 

She came to the knowledge of the peculiar temp- 
tations that Saturday night brought to the men on 
a certain street not far from her home, and she 
attempted the salvation of their week's wages by 
making a Saturday evening specially for them. 
Instead of saloons, she asked them all to hot Satur- 
day night suppers. In a room in a tenement house 
she prepared chowders, tea, and coffee; and the 
men of beer, won by her persuasive way of asking, 
would consent to leave the week's earnings at home, 
and come to the room which she had fitted for their 
entertainment. It would not be possible for the 
strange company she gathered ever to forget that 
one heart, at least, wished to make better men of 
them. She gave an interesting chapter of this early 
Salem work in one of her epistles, and of a stab the 
enemy gave her and her triumph over it. Who 
ever worked much in God, and was without a 
wound? 

" I am going to turn to your eye a page of the 
dear old past. Perhaps you do not know that, when 
I first came to Salem, I used to visit the poor a 
good deal, got children into the Sunday-school, 
etc. My district was between Winter Street and 
Beverly Bridge. In one family I found a young 



174 

girl who greatly interested me by her pleasant, 
sweet face and unselfish disposition. I never lost 
sight of her; and years after, her younger sister was 
left by the mother's death wholly to her care, and 
we all then saw the good which had seemed to be 
slumbering. The little sister had hip disease, and 
suffered intensely. How I pitied her! The sisters 
took me into their hearts, and always seemed glad 
when I visited their rooms. One day Katie, the 
sick one, said, 'If I could only do something to 
pass away the time, I should be so happy.' 'And 
would you like me to teach you to crochet? ' asked 
I. She was delighted; begged me to begin at once. 
I went for cotton, hooks, etc. In a short time the 
dear child could do any pattern. I arranged with 
Mr. Shepherd to furnish her with cottons at cost; 
and she sold her work at good profit, and thus 
helped the family income while lying upon her 
back. A lady heard of the child's long sickness, 
and called to see her. She asked who taught her 
the beautiful patterns; and, when this visitor made 
her report to the ladies who sent her, she repeated 
the circumstance, but added, 'I hear this Mrs. Far- 
mer spoken highly of, but there must be something 
lozv about her if she can sit with people and teach 
them any kind of patterns.' Ah! was Christ, my 
Saviour, low because he talked with fishermen ? " 

It is a delightful fact that God in his efforts to 
bless always lifts men to his level; and Mrs. Far- 
mer, without stopping to reason about it and without 
a consciousness of her power, invariably lifted people 



175 

to something better. Possibly this divine uplift, 
more than holy magnetism, can be explained by one 
of her own letters, detailing the way she received a 
country lad, who had come to the city to learn a 
trade, and who previously had been acquainted with 
the assistant missionary of Michael Carlton: — 

"Dear, good Miss Sarah Kimball, whom you had 
known at Ipswich, said one day, when she came in 
on her mission errands, 'That boy is as pure as the 
snowflake when midway between heaven and earth.' 
What a holy compliment to pay to a young boy 
of God! Could it have been sweeter? Forget it 
was said of you, and answer me. How often my 
prayer went up to our Father for you at that time 
that you should never receive an impression that 
would leave a stain ! When you came to the parlor, 
the prayer was, k Lord, help me to lift him higher.' 
And, if ever you received the freshness of a cup of 
cold water, God has the glory. We had no power 
then to see what that bashful shrinking boy was to 
become to the family; but, from that evening in 
the sweet month of roses, when Miss Kimball 
brought you to our house, you were to go no more 
out of our memories forever. The door of Eden 
Home always opened joyfully to you, and you never 
came when the hearts of our household did not bid 
you welcome. Since then every marked period of 
our lives has found your feet turning towards us, 
even if no human voice called you. Something 
seemed to tell you to come and share that which the 
dear Lord saw fit to send, either of joy or sorrow." 



iy6 

Surely, a mother could not do more wisely for the 
son of her heart than to pray, as did Mrs. Farmer 
for this country youth, that the influence of her 
home might prove a benediction whenever he called. 
Another most tender chapter of this special earlier 
Salem interest she wrote as an encouragement to a 
woman whose love for Jesus led her to undertake 
many and many a step for her Lord, but who had 
been puzzled evidently concerning a case which 
seemed fruitless to human thought : — 

" In my earliest Salem work of soul-saving, I fol- 
lowed one man twenty years before God saved him. 
More than once that man cursed me to the very 
depths as he answered my pleadings with his, 'I 
zvorf t heed you.' But there is no man to-day who 
is doing more for God and drunkards than he. God 
saved him, and he will save the soul you now 
crave." 

She then tells another sorrowful story of one 
whom she loved for his mother's sake and Christ's, 
and her heart throbbed at the rehearsal of tempta- 
tions which proved the wreck of the young life full 
of charm and promise : — 

"You never did me a more real kindness than in 
writing me the letter of yesterday. When we are 
in trouble of any kind, the best way to bear it and 
master it is to look it squarely in the face. This I 
have tried to do in the needs and failures of this 
young man. Do you know, dear, that whiskey is 
the trouble? Yes, that is what brought him where 
he is. Sarah has a wonderful influence over him. 



177 

He told her the whole story of his going back to his 
cups, and he promises to conceal nothing from the 
doctor. This is his sorrowful story : He was in the 
employ of one of the largest dry-goods merchants. 
He took his first glass of wine at his employer's 
home and table. He was invited to the house often ; 
and the merchant was very kind (?) to him, speaking 
of him always as one of the best of book-keepers. 
That very merchant to-day says he would unhesitat- 
ingly take him again if he would let drink alone, and 
yet he started him on the road to ruin. He told me 
that, in the days when he was workless, it seemed 
as if his angel mother kept telling him to come to 
us. He walked to and fro before he could gather 
courage to ring our bell. At last he came in. We 
were all ready for our yearly vacation; but we saw 
that the child must go West, and the only way we 
could send him was to give up our outing and fur- 
nish him with the money. We did it. He proved 
faithful to his word at the West until his employer 
required that boy to open the store every Sabbath, 
and he has stood behind that counter every Lord's 
Day for six years. No man on earth can bear such 
a business strain; and, when he began to give out, 
he most naturally wanted a stimulant to brace him 
up, and the doctor prescribed whiskey. He took it, 
and soon he took it without prescription. The rest 
you know. If that merchant had been faithful to 
his own soul and to his God, our boy would not be 
in the physical condition he is now. If his angel 
mother could speak, what would she say? The 



1 7 8 

end you cannot see, neither can I. But you hold 
on to God's promise, and you keep on praying; and 
I will, too. You have no idea of the hold on there 
is in me in these hard cases. I never give one 
up until his soul is saved or God takes him out Of 
the world; and that is why I once followed a man 
twenty years. Don't let the doctor get discour- 
aged, if you can help it; and, above everything 
else, don't let him tell our boy that he can do no 
more for him." 

The following journal letter seems to have been 
a response to some suggestions from her concerning 
the use of tobacco. Whoever is the writer, it is a 
wholesome page from a young man's life : — 

" My dear Mrs. Farmer, — Who told you that I 
smoked? When the clerk handed me the letter, he 
said, 'Pretty good hit on you, Charlie'; and so, 
before opening, I read the back of the envelope, 
and, as the coat fitted me, I had to put it on. Since 
reading your letter, I have taken into consideration 
whether it is best to give up smoking or not. 
Where the letter speaks of the gentlemen worries me 
more than any other portion. I have not decided. 
Sometimes I think I will. At other times I know 
I shall miss it so much. Mind you, I have not 
smoked but two or three times since, and it is be- 
cause I do not want to leave off on the spur of the 
moment. It may not agree with me afterwards. 

" December 20. I have just eaten my dinner, 
and partly finished my after dinner smoke. In all 
probability I should have finished it, had I not been 



179 

interrupted by receiving two letters, one of which 
was yours ; and I am almost ashamed to say 
SMOKE. I had made up my mind some time ago 
to commence the New Year, and see if I could not 
come out victorious over the pipe. There are but 
few days between now and then. So, if you will 
accept my old strong pipe and tobacco for Christ- 
mas, you are very welcome to the same. Good-by, 
smoking! 

"February 5. I certainly do believe I am the 
happiest little boy living; and you, I am sure, have 
been instrumental in doing much towards it. I 
must tell you that I stand true to my pledge with 
you. As I left off the use of tobacco forever the 
twentieth day of December, to-day finds me true 
and firm to that pledge. I am so glad I have left 
it off. Your prayers, I know, do me much good; 
and your letters I have read and re-read to my 
friends, and have taken a good deal of pleasure in 
so doing." 

When a child whom she had tried to benefit on 
her Bridge Street route of labor was for a season at 
a reformatory, she followed her with letters of help- 
fulness; and this was one of the responses: — 

" I am trying to be a very good girl. I am trying 
to overcome the habit of getting angry; and, if I 
overcome it, it will be a blessed thing. I mean to 
try. You said my teachers were my best friends. 
I find that, the longer I stay with them, the more 
I love them; and I think my stay with them will 
be the making of me if I try to improve, and I am 



i8o 



trying very hard to prepare myself for a useful 
woman. You say that the Salem friends behind 
me will rejoice at any improvement I make. If so, 
I will give them the chance to rejoice. I have felt 
since I received your letter as though I should like 
to be a Christian, and I am trying to love my 
Saviour. You wrote about my being unselfish. 
I hope that trait will never leave me. My teacher 
requested me to give her best regards to you, and to 
tell you that she thinks I can be very good when I 
am a mind to be. She says she hopes I will have 
a mind to." 

Some poor child, for whom she had obtained a 
needed gown, evidently had a severe time, and 
wrote to tell her: — 

"Mrs. Farmer, i left , on monday Sept. 2nd, 

and when i asked him for money, he would not give 
it to me, and he through me about the house and 
tore that dress that you gave me, and now i have to 
go to court about him, so no more at present." 

To another who went to Mrs. Farmer about what 
seemed a mistaken marriage she sent the following 
expressions of advice" : — 

"It seems as though I have thought of everything 
in the world as the form which your trial had come 
in, and still I had never thought once of intemper- 
ance. Even now I cannot make it possible, though 
I know it is true. I had thought of your husband 
as a weak man, but not a wicked one. God help 
you to bear it, dear, loving soul, in the spirit of 
Christ your Master, who will not leave or forsake 



i8i 



you. Don't blame yourself for any step you have 
taken. You did it for the best, and you must leave 
the result with Him who can see the end from the 
beginning. Perhaps you were led into this mar- 
riage to save his soul. God has a plan of his own 
in all that he does. Hold fast to his dear hand, 
and he will lead you home. The angels are watch- 
ing you with tender solicitude; but they under- 
stand why all this is needful, and they are satisfied. 
I wish I could fold you close to my heart, and let 
you feel how dear you are to me." 

To the Rev. Phcebe A. Hanaford she wrote : — 

"My dear Mrs. Hanaford, — I read not long 
since of your efforts in behalf of a poor, misguided 
girl in the depot at New Haven, and I wept over 
her folly in turning from such a friend and counsel- 
lor. But your labor of love will not be lost. In 
the great hereafter you will see that it all counted 
in the eyes of him who said, 'Blessed are the 
pure in heart, for they shall see God.' Life to 
you has a broader and deeper sense than ever be- 
fore. I pray God to follow you day by day with 
his blessing. My heart is with you in the work to 
which you are devoting soul and body." 

Mrs. Farmer took home heartily to herself what 
she wrote as advice to a student at the Bridgewater 
Normal School : — 

" We doubtless have a special work. To be sure, 
some of us blunder, and sometimes in our con- 
fusions we scarcely know why we are created. 
But, if one does not see his exact place, or thinks 



182 



he has no ability to excel in any direction, yet even 
poured out water is of value. It is exhaled, and 
becomes dew on the flower or the make-up of a 
fleecy cloud. Even dew may refresh a flower till 
its fragrance is noticeable, and to scatter fragrance 
is a divine mission truly." 

In the same spirit of making all things subser- 
vient of good, she told a minister: — 

"God has given you rare qualities for your work 
of public ministry. Good will naturally flow from 
it. Use all your studies, your readings even of 
newspapers, for the glory of God and the good of 
your parish. His blessings rest upon all who do 
his will." 

How sincere was her testimony when a friend 
wrote to her of her abiding spirit of help and uplift- 
ing! "God is my witness that I never did a thing 
in my life to be seen of men." And again that 
holy generousness and self-forgetfulness appears in 
a word of her pen : " If a poor, sorrowing heart can 
only say that I have been a comfort, it would be a 
sweet peace to my soul." And yet once more: "It 
will add to my joy in heaven to hear these poor 
despised ones, whom I have tried to bless by loving 
words and kindly deeds, tell me of the cups of cold 
water given unto them." 

Most appropriate for the close of this chapter of 
some of her earlier Salem efforts is an incident 
which occurred when the burden of a family debt 
had been forever removed. It shows how she ex- 
hibited gratefulness : — 



183 

"Let me make you smile by telling a story. 
The day we paid the last dollar we owed I was in 
Boston; and, walking through Tremont Street, I 
saw a poor old blind man, who had pencils, combs, 
shoestrings, for sale. I picked up every pencil, and 
paid for them. Then I took the combs, and finally 
the ties. When I had paid for them all, I laid 
every one back; and the old creature was too glad 
for words. But at last he stammered, — 
"'What do you want me to do? ' 
"'Go home and get warm.' 
"'I wish I could see you.' 
"'You will when you get to heaven.' 
"Then the poor old woman went along, the hap- 
piest in all Boston; for that morning was her own. 
Nobody could say to her, 'You had better pay 
your debts before you buy out blind beggars.' 
That was the proudest day of my life." 



XVI, 



CANDLE-BEAMS, 



" T TOW far that candle throws its beams," is an 
1 1 oft-repeated breath. Eden Home was 
doubly illuminated; for loving kindness radiated 
to everybody who came within its influence, and 
within its walls the ingenious husband lighted his 
electric candle, thereby making that dear old home 
to be a historic place, as he had already made his 
Frammgham residence by the fire alarm. In 1859, 
in the month of July, the parlor of Eden Home was 
lighted evening after evening by the strangely subtle 
agent, electricity. It was the earliest room in all the 
land to be thus continuously illuminated by the in- 
candescent electric light. It was a clear, beautiful 
gleam, and people of culture and of scientific interest 
came to see it and wonder. It was a new impulse, a 
forecasting of the multiplied electric lights of to-day. 
Was it not also a prophecy of another era, when even 
electricity will be but a candle-beam to the fulness 
of Christ-life and Christ-light? Clear and genuine 
as that experiment proved, not more so was it than 
the earnest sincerity of the shining love of the 
wife, who was lifting beacons wherever the darkness 
needed to be dissipated. From 1850 to the days of 



i8 5 

the Rebellion her candles were never untrimmed. 
They still shine. We may see by the light of them 
the various ways in which the dear woman left the 
cheer of her smile on hearts younger and older. 

It was in 1852, May 24, that she accompanied 
her husband to New York and Washington. Her 
uncle Thomas was of the company; and, next to the 
memory of her father, she loved this, his youngest 
brother the best. It seemed a journey forty years 
ago to go down to Washington. She wrote out her 
days of travel for the press. In New York she sat 
mellowed and entranced with the voice and wonder- 
ful simplicity of the queen of song, Jenny Lind. 
Professor Farmer sent as a little message to "Aunt 
Apphia," the beloved wife of Uncle Thomas: 
"Your niece is taking lessons in New York life 
and shopping. She is getting the hang of the 
streets and omnibuses pretty well. I think she 
would even venture out of sight of the hotel all 
alone." 

She touched the key-note of the ten blessed years 
between 1850 and i860 in a written passage: — 

"My time is not my own. I have a work given 
me to do, and it is not for me to direct my steps. 
How often have I asked my Father to keep me in 
that place where I can honor and glorify him! " 

And, when the beauty and sweetness of her home 
life came sensibly over her like a satisfying breath, 
she said : — 

"How good God is to crown my life with the 
blessed gift of love; to give me dear hands to so 



1 86 



tenderly anticipate all my needs; to leave me no 
wish ungratified; to bless me with affection that 
has never diminished since the glad hour when the 
precious word 'Wife' was first spoken, when the 
dear angels smiled upon that union of the hearts 
which in their presence were sealed as 07ie ! Those 
hearts are yet bound together by a tie no human 
hand hath woven." 

Another's estimate of her daily walk during these 
years may be gathered from a little fragmentary 
note sent to her with a package : — 

" Shall you fret because I send you a package via 
your brother? What a question! When Mabelle 
frets, we shall think the world has reached its 
climax, and that the All-of-evil is unharnessed." 

Many of her letters at this date may be called 
candle-beams, as they were written to children, 
youth, and students. On the birthday of her little 
daughter she said: "My dear little Sarah is five 
years old to-day. She asked me this morning if 
God had not been good to give her to me so long. 
My heart replies, Yes, he has been good, and he 
still is good." 

To a youth at Phillips Academy, Andover, she 
gave motherly counsel: "You have committed all 
your interests for time and eternity to the care of 
God. You will find the Arm of Strength. It is 
not always in this life that the benedictions are 
received, but our Father holds them in his hand. 
Be willing to keep in your lot. Never be craven- 
hearted. Go out strong, and meet every trial half- 
way." 



1 8 7 

She had a very high reverence for Principal Tay- 
lor of that academy, and a deal of thankfulness for 
a word spoken by him to her husband while he was 
taking the course preparatory to entering Dartmouth 
College. The incident is related by the Hon. 
Charles Carleton Coffin in his excellent volume of 
Boscawen History: — 

"Professor Farmer entered Phillips Academy in 
the autumn of 1837. At that time music was with 
him an all-absorbing passion, and other studies 
were often neglected in consequence of it. One 
day while seated at his organ, when he should have 
been preparing his lessons for the morrow, the door 
suddenly opened, and the calm, stern face of Dr. 
Taylor was before him. 'Farmer, you are disap- 
pointing the best hopes of your friends, ' were the 
only words that fell upon the ear of the boy 
musician, and the door closed between them. 
Great was the influence of those words upon the 
man who has ever found in duty his highest 
pleasure." 

With the knowledge of this most abrupt but 
characteristic interview with her husband in his 
youth, she again wrote to the Andover student : — 

"Remember me kindly to 'Uncle Sam,' as you 
are pleased to call your revered preceptor, and tell 
him I hope to have the pleasure of thanking him in 
person for the part he so nobly performed in mould- 
ing and perfecting the character of him with whom 
I have enjoyed years of the most uninterrupted 
happiness that it has been the fortune and the joy 



i8S 

of a woman to know. I am sorry you find Latin so 
tough, but you will never regret the pains you take 
to master it. I am sure you will be glad of Mr. 
Farmer's letter which accompanies this." 

The letter of Professor Farmer is so like his 
living voice that we cannot forbear its presentation. 
After a Latin introduction, he goes on: — 

Principal Taylor will lead you along gently, but 
surely, over its rough and rugged moods and tenses; 
and, though your moods be at times tense and 
gloomy, yet be assured light will by and by break 
in upon you brightly, and you will see a beauty 
in Latin which now is non sed reformitas (rather 
fragmentary Latin). Seriously, Latin was to me 
hateful, undesirable, abominable at first. I could 
see no use in it, supposing I did become proficient 
in its mastery; but give me mathematics, natural 
philosophy, chemistry, something that I could 
make use of in practical life, and I foolishly 
thought that I should be made. And so I should 
have been, — one-sided, humpbacked (mentally), 
precise, confident, sceptical. I can now see that 
the discipline of mind acquired in root-ing after 
the groundwork of Greek and Latin words and 
idioms, tempered with a due, and perhaps overdue, 
investigation of the exacter sciences, has been of 
vastly more use to me than either would have been 
alone. Could I go through it again, I would not 
have it different, only more so. Therefore please 
present my compliments to Dr. Taylor (or, as we 
rather irreverently sometimes called him, 'Uncle 



Sam '), and say from me that, as far as I can judge, 
I owe more to him mentally than to any other two 
teachers or men, living or dead; and may God 
bless him now and hereafter. If it is God's will, 
may he long be spared to direct others through the 
tangled snares and wildwoods of Greek and Latin 
roots and flowers (?); and in another and better 
world may his gems shine with a brightness and 
lustre that will never pale or dim. Such is the 
prayer of his wayward pupil and your sincere 
friend, — M. G. Farmer." 

To a young man studying for the ministry Mrs. 
Farmer wrote : — 

"I hope to see you in Andover before the vaca- 
tion. I cannot refrain from alluding to the time 
when I shall hear you preach Christ. Gird your- 
self for this. He will be strength for every hour 
of life. Draw water from the Living Fountain, 
and you will never thirst; and remember that the 
jewels of the crown will be the souls your faithful- 
ness has fed and helped." 

We find among her correspondents a youth who 
was at Wilbraham Academy and boarding himself. 
He rather amusingly tells her: — 

" Last night a lady sent me a plate of doughnuts, 
mince pie, plain cake, and a thick slice of cheese; 
and she is an utter stranger, too. She sent them, 
as the bearer said, because I 'look good in meet- 
ing.' I am sure it is very desirable to have a face 
that will bring a dish of doughnuts; but, dear me, 
at prayer meeting hereafter, I must sit behind a 



190 

post, or I shall certainly think of it, and, if I think 
of it, I may smile. And to smile will not be very 
becoming in the sanctuary; besides it will be 
breaking the rules of the school. But there is this 
happy thought. If ever I get to a starving point, 
I can sit where all the Wilbraham cooks can see 
me, and then I shall not only have enough, but 
shall abound. My dear, good mother wrote me 
that she was not surprised that I had found so 
many good friends in Wilbraham; for, if God's 
promise is true, I shall find them anywhere." 

The following letter is evidently Mrs. Farmer's 
response : — 

u Tell that lady who was attracted by the stu- 
dent's face, and sent him doughnuts and mince pie, 
that, if I had the said student in charge, I should 
furnish plainer and more sensible diet. But be as 
good as you can, and you will always look good. 
And what would you say if I told you that I have 
wished in the past that God had endowed me with 
beauty? It is true, every word of it. I do wish I 
had a beautiful face. Do you know what a world 
of power there is in beauty? How much more good 
one can do with a handsome face than a homely 
one! But, when I see beauty made subservient to 
other purposes, I always think what a record of 
lost opportunity of good. It may be God perceived 
that, if he gave me beauty, it would be my ruin." 

In anticipation of a visit to Northampton, a town 
of many memories, she said to this student: "I 
will ask Jesus to bless you and make your visit to 



igi 

hallowed ground an hour of the open vision of his 
face. If you stand at the grave of David Brainerd 
and visit also at South Hadley the resting-place of 
Mary Lyon, you will, I know, be impressed with 
the Scripture command, 'Put the shoes from off thy 
feet, for the ground is holy.' ' The young man 
evidently went to these places, for he wrote : — 
"Here I sit, dear Mabelle, on the old red slab 
over Brainerd's precious dust. My very heart is 
tender. My prayer goes up like a breath to be holy 
and good like Brainerd, to be of use as he was. I 
have gathered the little clover or shamrock leaves 
as souvenirs, and enclose them. By Brainerd's 
side sleeps Jerusha Edwards, his affianced, a lovely 
girl, transfigured, so legend says, with spiritual 
beauty. A white slab (a cenotaph) bears Jonathan 
Edwards's name, and still another the name and 
memory of the young and sanctified Henry Lyman. 
It must be that Lyman's mother lies buried in this 
ancient graveyard. I love her very name; for she 
said, when the intelligence came over the seas, that 
the wild and cruel islanders had destroyed her boy, 
'Had I another son, I would send him, too.' 
Heroic woman. Yes, Mabelle, I have found her 
grave. It is here. The stone reads: 'Susannah 
Willard Whitney, Widow of Theodore and Mother 
of Henry Lyman; was reunited to them June 12, 
1855, aged sixty-seven years.' What an appropri- 
ate epitaph, 'the Mother of Henry Lyman'! It 
might inspire any heart with resurrection power to 
visit graves like these." 



192 

This student correspondence may well be supple- 
mented by gatherings from missives written by her 
to Fannie, a little daughter of her uncle Thomas 
and aunt Apphia Shapleigh. The little cousin 
had written a child-like letter in the unformed 
hand of earliest effort, and Mrs. Farmer responded: 

" It is very gratifying to me to know you can 
write so well and compose so readily. I want you 
to be particularly careful, in whatever you write, 
that every word is spelled just right. If you are 
attentive to this now, you will find it of untold 
value when you are older. Ask your dear father 
from me to buy you Webster's Unabridged Diction- 
ary. I think he will do it. And, then, I want you 
to read very carefully one page of words and defi- 
nitions every day. You will be surprised to see 
how easily you can find the time to do this when 
once you make up your mind to it. Have a system 
in everything; and, Fannie, remember this is the 
result of Cousin Hannah's experience, — that there 
can be nothing well done unless it is done syste- 
matically." 

Again she wrote golden words to the child, — 
words that may well be tested by a thousand homes 
and hearts, and every time be found divine: — 

" Let the whole family be bound together by the 
cord of which Love is the strength. Then we shall 
see the dear place called Home just what He de- 
signed it when he created such a source of untold 
happiness for all who are willing to unite in mak- 
ing up this home. All must take an active part. 



193 

There must be no drones. If but one hand be 
wanting, the Altar of Blessedness will never be 
wholly reared. Now, dear Fannie, begin to-day. 
See how much you can do towards making your 
own dear home the pleasantest place on earth. Be 
good to your dear father and mother. Be a loving, 
patient sister to dear little Belle. Remember that 
she is younger than you, and teach her now to look 
up to you. Do all you can to improve your own 
mind, that you may thereby be a help to her. Re- 
member, too, that there are two dear little girls 
still younger than Belle, whom you will influence 
for good or for evil. Their mother is a kind sister to 
you. Repay her by being a help to her in forming 
their characters. You may ask, 'What can I do, 
for I am only a little girl myself?' I know this, 
Fannie; but you can do a great deal. In the first 
place, rule your own spirit, and you will help them 
to govern theirs. Do not speak an angry word. 
Try it, and tell me when you write how you 
succeed." 

In another letter she wrote what we all discover 
sooner or later; and well is it that we do, — not that 
we shall thereby think the less of books, but the 
more of actual experience: — ■ 

"You have a great deal to learn besides what you 
get from books. Books are but a small part of our 
development. I Would have you do a little every 
day to bring out the good, and thereby diminish the 
bad in your nature. It is just like your flower 
garden. If you keep the weeds thinned out, the 



194 

flowers will have all the benefit of the moisture and 
nourishment of the earth. Strive to add every day 
to your garden of such virtues as you would best 
like to possess. Cultivate patience as the one 
prominent trait of your character. There is none 
other you will need more." 

Xot unwisely did she suggest to the child what 
she likewise enjoined upon her own little daughter: 

" I want you to have a day-book, and write just 
what may occur to interest you. In this way you 
will bring out some new idea every day, and 
thereby increase your little stock of knowledge; 
and you can have no idea how much you will have 
gained in a year. This book must be open to your 
father and mother, for you should have no secrets 
from them. To your mother ever go with all your 
hopes and fears. In her you will find a heart 
keenly alive to all that concerns you. I say your 
mother, because girls find it so much more easy to 
talk with her than with father. But from neither 
should there be any secrets." 

Last, but not least, did she write a simple word 
concerning the hour when the definite choice is 
made to let the bent of the mind be Godward, the 
time called by church people conversion : — 

"I want to hear, Fannie, that you have chosen 
Christ for the guide of your youth, and that you are 
willing to give yourself to him and live to the 
glory of God. You are still young. Life's cares 
are new to you. Before the dew of life is gone, 
come to Jesus. You can never know how much I 



195 

love you or how my heart yearns over you. As 
I see what a hold you have upon my affections, I 
would save you from all things as I would my own 
daughter." 

Oct. ii, 1857, the dearest of her uncles, Thomas 
Shapleigh, fell asleep, She loved him so much that 
his photograph stood upon her table as long as she 
lived. "He was my father's youngest brother," 
she wrote, "and died of the same disease (typhoid 
fever) in the same month and the same day of the 
month and within a few moments of the same hour 
in the morning. It was a singular coincidence. 
Father died in 1840. They had lived together 
almost uninterruptedly, — that is, in the same town 
and most of the time on the same street; and it is 
very seldom that brothers enjoy so much of each 
other's society. And will not this very love bind 
them more closely in heaven? " To her aunt 
Apphia she wrote out all her soul : — 

"Oct. 28, 1857. To tell you that I loved my 
dear uncle is what you already know; and, knowing 
as I do that those lips I have so often kissed will 
never more return the token of affection, there is 
not a remembrance connected with him that I 
would forget. I always loved him; and he knew 
it, and he returned it with interest. I can hardly 
tell you what a source of comfort it is to me now 
to think of my last interview with him. He came 
to us tired and cold, and found me sitting up and 
waiting for him. We had a good warm fire, and 
warmer hearts to bid him welcome. How little I 



196 

thought when he left us that I was looking upon 
him for the last time until we meet in Eternity, 
that I was not to look upon him even when the 
spirit had gone to Him who gave it. The tidings 
were withheld from me until the grave had received 
all that was mortal of him I loved. On the day of 
the burial I took no work in my hand. I could 
do nothing but weep. If I tried to read, the tears 
filled my eyes; and I could not see. At last I sat 
alone above stairs, and wept till there were no more 
tears. When Gerrish came in at night with the 
telegram, which had been delivered in Boston, I 
was as one paralyzed. I could not speak. O Aunt 
Apphia, it did seem as though I should die. Dear 
Uncle Thomas dead and buried, and this the first I 
had known of it! Then I thought of you and your 
dear, fatherless children ; and I wanted to fly to you, 
that I might whisper a word of comfort. I rejoice 
that he knew in whom he had believed, and was will- 
ing to leave himself in His hands. And now he is 
with my own blessed father, with whom my very 
life went half away. There is a new link that 
binds me to Eliot, now that my dear uncle is resting 
there." 

In January, 1858, she writes of a lesson hard to 
learn, even by children of older years than the 
"little Georgie" of her letter: — 

"Dear little Georgie is still very lame of hip 
disease, and has not been dressed for four weeks. 
He told his mother he did not think he should live; 
for one day last summer, when he was in the barn 



197 

alone, he knelt down and prayed to God to make 
him well, and he has not done it yet, and now he 
does not think he ever will. Poor child, it is hard 
to learn the fact that God does not answer accord- 
ing to our words, but as we need." 

In Boscawen, her husband's early and endeared 
home, and the home also of his sister Jane, she 
dates a letter of narrow escape from injury, Oct. 
II, 1858: — 

"At Boscawen, with dear little sister, Jennie 
Little. She is as good as she can be; and her dear 
husband, Ephraim, is as near perfection as he can 
be and live in this wicked world. I have a great 
deal for which I am thankful. Saturday Gerrish 
took me to ride. On our return I attempted to step 
from the carriage to the veranda, when the horse 
started, and threw me. I am very much bruised, 
and have suffered considerable pain, but have no 
broken bones. This to us all is a matter of wonder 
and thankfulness. God is ever mindful of me. I 
want to love him wholly." 

July, 1859, a letter from the Eliot home revealed 
the illness of the aged grandmother: "On Saturday 
mother wrote us that my dear old grandmother 
Tobey is very sick. You know how dear she is to 
me; and you know, too, that I do not feel willing 
for those dear, tired feet to rest yet. I keep say- 
ing, k I cannot give her up now.' But the dear 
saint is ready and waiting. For years she has 
lived on the verge of the heavenly world to which 
her steps are now going." 



198 

Turning from the apparently dying, we find 
among her papers the following letter to the living, 
a young and bewildered girl. When she wrote it, 
heart and head were in pain; but pain was second- 
ary to her desire for the present and eternal welfare 
of anybody : — 

"The hand is tired to-night that would gladly 
clasp yours and wrest you from the destroyer of 
your peace. But the strong mother-heart, beneath 
which my own precious child has slept, goes out to 
other mothers' daughters with longings that must 
find expression in words. At the first thought of 
your danger, it seemed as if human help must fly to 
your rescue. Then the Voice, to which I have 
listened through all these days of suffering, said, 
1 Lo, I am with you always ' ; and my trust grew 
firm as the mountain. I can now bear you in 
arms of faith to the Mercy Seat. Remember that 
you have an angel mother watching you from 
heaven. It may be that God will give her 'charge 
concerning thee.' If he does, who can doubt but 
that she will be "the angel over the right shoulder.' 
Your feet are standing where but a step lies be- 
tween you and your ruin. He who can so far for- 
get his vows before God, angels, and men, he who 
could forget the innocent children who bear his 
name, who has disgraced his manhood forever by 
his unholy passion for you, would degrade you, 
dear, to the level of the beasts. Scorn him as you 
would the viper that warns you by his rattle that he 
is about to strike you. Turn from him this very 



199 

hour as you value your good name, which has 
hitherto been without spot or blemish. He is your 
bitterest foe. Never again allow him to address 
you. You took a noble position when you refused 
the written page from his hand. Maintain this 
resolution at the price of your life. True love is 
founded upon respect. If the vile man (may God 
forgive him!) has made a mistake in the choice of 
a wife, then, if he possesses one spark of true man- 
hood, he will understand that his present duty is to 
make that wife all he once thought or hoped she 
was. God has told us to say, 'Deliver us from 
temptation.' If we put ourselves in the way of the 
tempter, can we expect the keeping power? The mo- 
ment Satan persuades us to reason, we are lost. Clothe 
yourself, child, in the armor of God. In this dear 
Eden Home, your face is unknown; but from this 
pillow of suffering, prayer will go up to the great 
Listener, through all the watches of this sleepless 
night. God will hear and respond. To his watch- 
fulness I commend you, assuring you of the love and 
sympathy of your stranger-friend. H. T. S. F." 



XVII. 



THE QUARTETTE. 



A LITTLE band of songsters met face to face 
in Eden Home, and were united in a delight- 
ful and perpetual friendship. It is rare that four 
sisters blend in a life of such hallowed concord. 
They were Mrs. Farmer (Mabelle), Rev. Phoebe A. 
Hanaford, Mary Trask Webber ("Mary Webb"), 
and Caroline A. Mason. The musical harmony 
and the continued correspondence linked them in 
heart. Though all sang for the public, and pub- 
lished often in local columns, yet neither asked nor 
aimed for recognition. Three of them are now be- 
fore the throne. One, Mrs. Hanaford, yet pursues 
the busy God-life appointed for her. What was 
said of Mrs. Mason at her burial can be said truly 
of them all. Her pastor (Rev. William H. Pier- 
son) called her the local sibyl; for, when a word 
of comfort, gratulation, or commemoration was 
needed, "her pen was the happy one to do it." 
The acquaintance of this quartette began in a poetic 



201 



address, "Respectfully inscribed to Mrs. Hanaford, 
by Mabelle." She introduced her song: — 

"Stranger! Friend I dare not call thee, 

Though thy loving face I see 
With the pictures I've been hanging 

On the walls of memory, 
And how oft in joy and sorrow 

Turns the eye to rest on thee ! " 

The poem closes with a recalling of a beautiful 
summer day when Mabelle first saw Mrs. Hanaford 
at a rural gathering of the Essex Institute : — 

" And with joy I now remember 
In the past a summer day, 
When the air was rich with fragrance, 

As we watched the sunbeams play, 
Quivering through the leafy branches, 
Scattering pictures by the way. 

" Then thy voice so low and tender 

Fell upon my listening ear. 

Now I hearken for thy footstep, 

For it seemeth very near ; 
And my home has been made brighter 
By thy words of hope and cheer. 

" And among thy flowers gathered 

In the heart's herbarium prest, 
Is there yet a vacant chamber 

That is waiting for a guest ? 
Tell me, loved one, though a stranger, 

I may enter there and rest." 

It was not long before the response found its way 
into the same literary column, Mrs. Hanaford quot- 
ing as a text for her poem the words of Fredrika 



202 



Bremer, "The human heart is like heaven, — the 
more angels, the more room." 

" Mabelle ! Friend I now shall call thee, 
Though, perhaps, I never see 
Thy face 'mid the dear ones hanging 

On the walls of memory. 
Mabelle, as a friend draw nearer 
And reveal thyself to me. 

" They who can in tuneful numbers 

Touch with joy the poet's lyre, 
They upon whose spirit altar 

Burns the poet's holy fire, 
Surely they can ne'er be strangers, 

Members of the same sweet choir." 

And the closing stanza of the response was a 
soulful expression never withdrawn by the writer: — ■ 

" Yes. I have a vacant chamber. 

Thou shalt be a welcome guest, 
If my love, for Christ's sake given, 

Can make thee a moment blest, 
Whispering the eternal password, 

' Mabelle, enter there and rest' " 

And next we read in the margin of Mabelle's 
Spiritual Treasury: "1861, Feb. 23. Have seen 
Mrs. Hanaford. I am going to love her dearly." 
And love her she did unto the end. Her final let- 
ter to her friend was written when the sun already 
was burying itself in the western horizon. 

The first call of Mrs. Hanaford at Eden Home 
followed an address of Peter Sinclair at the Howard 
Street Church, and the friendship began. It was 



203 

rapidly followed by the introduction of the refined 
and shrinking Mary Webber. And, when Caroline 
Mason came to see her old classmate, Mrs. Web- 
ber, it was most natural that she, too, should find 
her way to Eden Home ; and the Quartette was com- 
plete. Caroline Mason had long been known in 
Eden before her presence there by her little popular 
song, u Do they miss me at Home?" And Mrs. 
Farmer had entered *vith all her spirit into the 
equally well-known poem, — 

" I have done at last with dreaming." 

It was wonderfully interesting, when these pleas- 
ant women had blended their loves, to study their 
personalities. Neither could live to herself. Of 
the four, Mary Webber was the most retiring; and 
a thread of quaintness woven into her fabric gave 
an interest to her conversations and letters. "I do 
think," she said one day to Mrs. Farmer, u that the 
person who returns a borrowed newspaper should be 
next on the calendar to the saint who brings back 
an umbrella." And once, when asked for a com- 
memorative word for hearts grieving at the side of 
a fresh grave, she said, as if she knew : " What are 
words in sorrow? They only break the monotony 
of a grief they cannot assuage." But, retiring and 
quaint as she was, Mary Webber had a public eye 
and a living grasp of outside life. She greatly 
admired the ingenuity of Professor Farmer, and 
used her pen to write out the observations and de- 
scriptions of his work's, the creations of his brain. 



204 

A photograph of Mary Webber found its way 
into Eden Home; and Mrs. Farmer wrote of it: 
"Dear Mary Webber has sent me an excellent 
photograph of herself. I love to look at it. The 
expression is so quiet that husband has christened 
it 'Resignation.' ' Mrs. Hanaford was the energy 
of the quatrain. Her calling was undeniable. The 
Voice was within her. She must speak it, write it, 
live it. m 

Mrs. Mason must have had a twinliness to Mrs. 
Farmer in her sympathy for the Magdalens, as she 
wrote : — 

" Who seems most lost some day may lie 
Nearer God's heart than you or I. 
We cannot tell, we do not know. 
Be merciful: the Christ is so." 

Certain it is that what Mrs. Mason wrote Mrs. 
Farmer put into most practical, constant, and un- 
flagging experience. 

Mrs. Webber and Mrs. Mason were educated at 
the Bradford School, the same old seminary that 
Mrs. Farmer would have enjoyed but for the sudden 
translation of the wise and beloved father. It was 
the school where Harriet Atwood Newell and Ann 
Haseltine Judson were taught, and where Harriette 
Briggs caught the missionary impulse to go forth 
as the wife of David Stoddard, the rarest and holi- 
est of young men. Possibly, the religiousness of 
the mature lives of Mrs. W T ebber and Mrs. Mason 
was an outcome of the savor of the precious days 
when the missionary spirit filled the atmosphere. 



205 

It may be, too, that Mrs. Webber, in her Beverly 
home, was influenced by the often-told memories 
of Fanny Woodbury, another Bradford alumna, who 
formed a lifelong fellowship with Harriet Newell, 
and, like her, was buried early and with many tears. 
Magnetisms and influences like these may have 
shaped in Caroline Mason's brain and led her to 
put upon paper "En Voyage," by which she will be 
long remembered : — 

" Whichever way the wind doth blow, 
Some heart is glad to have it so. 
Then blow it east or blow it west, 
The wind that blows, that wind is best." 

Beautiful and abiding was the fellowship of song 
in these daughters of the King, the Miriams with 
their timbrels. "And Miriam answered, Sing ye 
to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously." 



XVIII. 



BABY CLARENCE. 



THE year i860 was an era in Mrs. Farmer's life. 
It was the beginning of sorrows and the mul- 
tiplying of joys. She was never the same after- 
wards. The very doors of her being were opened 
to pity, love, and sympathy. The bereaved, the 
sick, the limited children of God, were clasped to 
the Infinite within her. Her exquisite sympathy 
seemed a divine indwelling. 

On the 26th of May the most beautiful of earli- 
est flowers, a baby boy, was laid in her arms. One 
day later he was in the bosom of God. The quick 
ending of hopes, cheers, and faith fell strangely upon 
all the household, and all the more so for the 
months of physical agonies, — months which lit- 
erally stretched into a score of years. It would 
be useless to attempt any picture of the mother's 
sorrow. She wanted her lamb in her own bosom. 
Her love, which was like waves of the sea, could 
only dash against the very rocks and moan even as 
the wind does. 

When the baby of a day was laid in his tiny bed, 
the father placed with him a little token, which was 



207 

copied for the mother, and always kept among her 
most sacred souvenirs : — 

BABY CLARENCE. 

Those little hands ne'er did a wrong, 

Those feet ne'er went astray. 
He saw the gates of Heaven ajar, 

And glided up that way, — 
That shining way all angel-lined 

That leadeth up to God. 
We bow, and meekly kiss the hand 

That holds the chastening rod. 
May 27, i860. m. G. F. 

The tender story of this babe of a thousand loves 
and of tears that never dried has been told by the 
mother in every beam and nail of the beautiful 
Rosemary, built by her love and grief in 1888, 
when the son would have been twenty-eight years 
of age, had he been spared to reckon his ministry 
by months and years. Dear Rosemary! open sum- 
mer by summer for tired mothers and their children. 
But, besides the substantial expression, the thou- 
sands of letters which she wrote are all blended 
with his name and her sorrow. The following 
word-picture of the day when both mother and child 
were almost together in the bosom of God was writ- 
ten to a clergyman, who had told her of a burial at 
which a young mother, with a most holy serenity, 
at the end of the service kissed her only babe, and 
then closed the little coffin-lid forever. When the 
letter reached Eden Home, Mrs. Farmer responded: 

u The day without, is bright and beautiful ; and, 



208 



strangely, the sunshine brings no pain. My blinds 
are open, and I have been looking upon the street, 
and the ever-living tide of human beings. But my 
heart is not there. I cannot forget the mother who 
closed the lid which shut the light of her soul away 
forever. I do not think I could have done it. Oh, 
these little coffins, — how much they sometimes 
hold! Tears fall like rain in sympathy for that 
young and tearless mother; and I am thankful that 
you were near to point her to him who loves little 
children. What a comfort to sorrowing mothers 

that he holds them in his arms! Shall we ever 

i 

find them again after the dusty march of life? I 
thank God that they are not lost to us, but have 
passed before and beyond us for a little while. 

"The touching story you wrote us of this baby, 
Charlie Spencer, carried me once more to that day 
in Eden Home when the little, tiny coffin was laid 
upon my bed. It was the cradle for my only son, 
my precious blue-eyed Baby Clarence. But, oh! 
how could I let them lay my darling within it until 
I had felt with my own hand that it was soft and 
warm? One dearer than life to me put one of my 
weak hands upon its pillow; and then I said, 'Leave 
me alone with God.' How I wrestled for submis- 
sion in those moments none but the All-compas- 
sionate can ever know. Kisses covered the bed of 
my darling; and, when it was taken from me, the 
whole lining was glistening with tears. When 
Baby found his pillow there, a moment later, the 
tears touched the precious head, and shone like 



209 

diamonds upon his soft brown hair. But no entreaties 
of mine prevailed with those who loved me to let me 
kiss that clay cold covering which once enshrined my 
priceless gem. Both of my attending physicians 
said that, if I should faint, I should never rally, 
and a chill would be the final death-blow. So they 
held me here when it would have been so easy to go 
with my baby. Since then I have thanked God 
every hour of life that I was not taken; for I think 
heaven will be more glorious for the pain I have 
suffered and the experience through which I have 
passed; and out of the crucible have come those 
opportunities of sympathy and love which have 
made, I trust, my life not wholly useless. Again 
I thank you for the letter about little Charlie 
Spencer. God bless you for it! is the prayer of 
Baby Clarence's mother, — 

" Who waits this side the golden gate, 
And scans its glories o'er and o'er; 
For she has reached the longed for place 
Where she can see from shore to shore." 

To another sympathetic soul she wrote out yet 
more of the story of her lamb : — 

"As dear Fannie laid my feeble, trembling hand 
upon that pure baby brow, my lips, which seemed 
almost closed in death, whispered, 'Did ever God 
make anything so perfect as that dear little head?' 
To my quickened ear there came the answer, 'No, 
dear: I don't think he ever did.' Baby rested for 
a moment beside me; while I, all unconscious of 
his presence, saw not the angel host who were call- 



2IO 



ing him away until they had clothed him with 
immortality. Glory to God and the Lamb that the 
peace which they brought to my soul has never been 
dissipated! The little hand which clasped mine so 
tightly in the last struggle holds it yet: and I feel 
sure it will lead me safely over the river and up to 
the city of God. Hopes born that day have never 
lost any of their brightness or purity. That dear, 
little, blessed baby is still all my own; and, when 
through suffering I have been made perfect, I shall 
surely hear him call me l Mother. ,' 

" Was ever more to mortal given, 
When here the earthly tie is riven, 
Than this sweet ray. all undefiled, 
With me there dwells an angel child ? 

"God helping, I will never do anything that shall 
come between me and that pure presence. The 
waiting is only for a little while. I will pray that 
I may never murmur, but be willing to tarry till 
they need me in the Beyond." 

As the courage of faith took more and more its 
old attitude and assurance, she said to her dear 
Mrs. Souther: — 

" I am more to be envied than pitied. My faith 
in God never grows dim. My trust in his care is 
as unfaltering as my courage. If the raising of my 
hand would restore me to perfect health, I would 
not dare do it, so surely do I see and know that my 
Father has ordered every event of my life." 

And yet, in the midst of this sweetness of resig- 



21 I 

nation, she could whisper in the ear of this same 
precious sister in sorrow and pain : — 

"My very flesh is so sore and so sensitive that it 
affords no protection to the bones which seem made 
up of pain; and I find it extremely suffering to be 
in any position, except upon the softest bed, and 
even then a large frame must support the coverlids. 
This is the way I pass my days, my blessed 
Anemone. I do not write complainingly, for my 
heart is as quiet in Christ as the little baby's who 
never knew a sorrow of earth." 

Another day her mother-heart so yearned for the 
baby in heaven that she relieved her over-charged 
heart by penciling : — 

"Oh, I shall never cease to wish that your arms 
had held my precious blue-eyed boy, if only for a 
moment, that you might have told his poor mother 
how beautiful the form which God had fashioned to 
hold the priceless gem of immortality. How often 
I wish you could have smoothed that wealth of 
sunny curls, and marked the perfect contour of the 
head, if only that I might hear your lips say, 'He 
was beautiful ! ' " 

It is too early in our story to give the history of 
that beautiful rest for weary mothers and restless 
children,— the endeared and consecrated Rosemary; 
but this brief story of the Baby Clarence will be 
made more perfect by a letter which his mother 
wrote to Mary Webber, May 15, 1889, when she 
had received one of the dedicatory hymns from Mrs. 
Webber's pen. The epistle's date was two weeks 



212 



prior to the delivery of the keys of Rosemary to the 
trustees of the Boston City Mission: — 

"How glad I am now that I have been willing to 
let my sweet little Baby Clarence live in the home 
eternal, so far beyond my empty arms! Never a 
day has passed in all these eight-and-twenty years 
that I have not thanked God that he took my baby 
from me, and never a day that I have not looked 
forward to a time when I could build his monu- 
ment. God be praised that it is finished, and will 
so soon be given to God to show my love and grati- 
tude in taking from me that which would have 
been an idol ! But for this, Rosemary would 
never have been built. What should I have 
thought or cared if other mothers were suffering? 
My arms were not empty. God was good to take 
the child. It will be impossible to tell you how 
happy I am over your 'Dedication Hymn.' We 
all say, 'It is just what we want.' As Birdie laid 
it down, she said, 'How lovely it is, mother." It 
is as sweet as the first breath of spring. God bless 
you, dear Mrs. Webber, for the spirit of willing- 
ness and effort to make us happy, as the crowning 
work of our lives lifts its glad face up to heaven. 
Our dear Caroline Mason has written a beautiful 
hymn, too; and Mrs. Hanaford will be able to say 
or to send us some good word for the dear Rose- 
mary. What will you say when I tell you that your 
first-born — Allan — has sent me forty dollars in 
your name for a bed in that blessed home? This 
summer will be the happiest of your life in know- 



213 

ing that some poor mother or little child is made 
comfortable thereby in Rosemary." 

The tender story which we have been trying to 
tell in this chapter was expressed by herself in 
verse. It was a memory of the eventful May 27, 
i860. It was entitled "Anchored," a word which 
she often used to express the power divine which 
saved her life from being a wreck of pain. 

ANCHORED. 

O'er a trackless sea I drifted 

Once upon a bright May morn, 
Loved ones tried in vain to hold me, 

But their strength and power were gone. 

Home had been to me like heaven, 

And it was so precious still. 
Oh, the pang it cost to leave it ! 

Yet it seemed my Father's will. 

I had then the blest assurance 

I should safely cross the tide; 
For I saw my angel envoy 

All around, on every side. 

In my arms I held my baby, 

Nestled closely to my heart. 
Oh, I was so glad and thankful 

That we should not have to part ! 

Heaven, our home, was drawing nearer 
Friends beloved had crossed before. 

I could hear their voices calling, 
As they signaled from the shore. 

Far across the waters gleaming 
Shone a glorious beacon light. 



214 

I supposed the many mansions 
Soon would burst upon my sight. 

So I waved farewell to loved ones 
Dearer than my life to me ; 

And I knew, if I must leave them, 
God would bring them home to me. 

; Glory be to God the Highest,*' 
Sang the angels loud and clear; 

And my heart took on new courage, 
For the crossing seemed so near. 

Soon I heard my Pilot saying: 
" Drop your anchor! Let it go ! " 
Oh, the agony it cost me 

Only God himself can know ! 

For a little moment only 

Held I fast my sacred prize : 

Then I saw my Saviour near me. 
Pointing upward to the skies. 

Quick I knew he needed Baby 
In his heavenly home above ; 

That, while going on his errands, 
He would still be mine to love. 

Never had a gem so precious 
Sparkled in a monarch's crown. 

I had taken it from Jesus : 

Now his voice said, "Lay it down.' 1 '' 

Oh, the glory of that moment 
Would repay a life of pain ! 

So I handed him my baby, 

Turned my face towards land again. 

I have never, never drifted, 
Knowing not which way to go, 

Since I anchored with my angel, 
Three-and-twenty years ago. 



XIX. 

"many shall be purified, made white, and 
tried" (dan. XII. 10). 

AN elderly pen can hardly write the date, 1861, 
even at thirty years' distance, without a 
shudder. It was the year of the plunge of the 
steel into the midst of the stars and stripes 
which had floated almost a century in the fresh 
atmosphere of freedom of will and life. Mrs. 
Farmer received the universal baptism of the hour, 
or its equivalent, — the quickening of love for the 
flag and for the boys who carried it. "My boys" 
she called them evermore. Because her own lamb 
was with the Good Shepherd, all others became 
hers by soulful adoption. She was but a suffering 
invalid in 1861 ; and, though stepping feebly about, 
her feet could not carry her outside of the fires 
of pain. But she was only one of the many who 
were then being purified with the flames that 
burned only to "try to make white." How often 
she said, "I have no boy to offer in sacrifice in 
this fiery day," as if, because she was sonless, all 
other sacrifices were uncounted! God knew her 
heart and her powers of enduring love. As the 
processes of purging went on in the midst of the 



people and in her own life, her busy hands and 
brain became the busier; and she finally, when 
utterly prostrated upon her bed, promulgated and 
carried through the May Day Fair of 1864, which 
turned a wide public thought to her, and she be- 
came to hundreds, upon battle-grounds and in 
homes, a preacher of love, kindness, and sym- 
pathy, — a definite revelation of Christliness. 

We cautiously follow her in her steps from 1861 
onward. It is not easy for one in health to know 
the throbs of a life developed only in pains. A 
careful pen must write of the loves, prayers, coun- 
sels, which grew to fruitfulness in the prostrations 
of Eden in 1861-62, and at Lillie's home in the 
busy tides of Boston in 1863. 

Eden Home was within the easiest reach of a rail- 
road crossing over which the regiments of Eastern 
New England passed en route to the field. Mrs. 
Farmer was utterly void of the merely curious eye 
to watch from her window the regimental trains. 
The blue of the uniform, the music of the band, 
even the drum and fife, might go and come, and 
the progress of troops, as the sensation of an hour, 
would not have called her even to her window. 
Yet she did not lack observation. She was quick 
to see sunbeam and shadow. But it was the abim- 
dance of heart that swallowed completely the natural 
and eager glance, and gave to her the zest which 
made every interest her own. From the moment 
the war-note sounded, her work began. She did not 
dream that it was to be a definite work. It was 



217 

simply the next thing. She began with little chil- 
dren — her daughter's schoolmates — as co-laborers. 
She had most easy access to them. Her voice cap- 
tivated the child. A mother-voice echoes forever 
and ever in child-life. She told the little ones of 
a regiment on the wing to the South. Would they 
get flowers and make bouquets and write a kind 
wish, and, when the train paused at the crossing, 
at the slope below her western windows, would they 
be all ready to distribute these affectionate tokens 
in the train? Indeed they would. Every child 
felt an electric impulse. No, it was not the mag- 
netic impulse: it was the divine thrill. Flowers 
came in baskets. Cards were written. The sol- 
diers came, paused a moment at the crossing, and 
went. Some of them never passed that way again. 
But the glance of the sunlight of the fragmentary 
rest at Salem went even into eternal life. It was 
only a little thing. Any other woman could have 
done it. Mrs. Farmer never thought of doing any 
but little things. Yet her little things counted. 
The grain of mustard-seed became a tree. It was 
the littlenesses that made her life a perpetual com- 
fort, and give a sense of something gone now that she 
is away. When a memory of the early Rebellion 
days came back to her, she wrote : — 

" The day that the tidings reached us of the attack 
upon Fort Sumter I solemnly consecrated myself 
anew to God and to the service of my country. That 
her interests should be paramount to every earthly 
consideration was the resolve I then formed; and, in 



218 



the performance of this pledge, I waited for what- 
ever opportunity offered itself. I laid aside all my 
own work, and took up that for the soldiers, knit- 
ting or sewing as was most needed. Every regi- 
ment that passed I met at the crossing, and gave 
pin-flats, flowers, written articles, books of war 
melodies, and everything else I could get, to the 
men who were on the way to fight our battles. 
Once our little family sat up all night, watching 
for a special train, and went down to see the sol- 
diers just as the day was breaking." 

One of the little tags on a bunch of flowers was 
returned to her months after it had been sent away. 
It is only a text and a prayer; but a gracious relic 
of her life at that time: — 

" Choose ye this day whom ye will serve. May 
God help you to do it ! is the prayer of your friend, 

"H. T. Farmer." 

She encouraged her little disciples to respond 
with kindly letters when the soldiers ackowledged 
these passing gifts; and, after all the intervening 
years since the paeans of peace, comes back a letter 
written to Major Alfred B. Soule (of the Maine 
23d) in the school-girl hand of her own little 
daughter Sarah, who blended her child sympathies 
with all the mother's labors: — 

"When I read your letter, I was so much inter- 
ested that I thought I would like to write to you. I 
have seen every regiment that has gone from Maine 
and Massachusetts, and have gone down to the 



219 

crossing with flowers for them, so that they might 
know that we thought of them. My dear father and 
mother are Christians; and I have been religiously 
educated, and, I trust, have given my heart to the 
Saviour. I have tried to. Every morning and 
night when I pray I unite with my prayer a petition 
for our brave soldiers. It makes me happy to think 
that there are some praying soldiers in the army. 
I wish there were more, because the Bible says that 
the effectual prayer of a righteous man availeth 
much. I attend Sabbath-school, and my teacher is 
Mrs. Beaman, our dear pastor's wife. I love her 
dearly. Yesterday I received two letters from 
some soldiers, thanking me for flowers that I had 
given them while passing through Salem. It was 
pleasant to know that some one had received them 
who loved flowers. When you write to your dear 
wife and children, please send my love to them. I 
have many dear friends in the army, and a dear 
uncle [Charles Carleton Coffin] is a correspondent 
of the Boston Journal, over the signature of 'Carle- 
ton.' I hope that you will be the means of bringing 
many souls to Christ; and my prayer shall be that 
he will bless and guide you and restore you to your 
home. Yours very respectfully, Sarah J. Farmer." 
It was in September, 1861, that Mrs. Farmer 
wrote anonymously a poem, which was read in a 
public meeting of the Union Drill Club. It was 
perhaps the largest war meeting that had then been 
held in Salem. Mechanics' Hall was filled to over- 
flowing. The city officials, the clergy, the citizens, 



220 



were there; and hundreds could not reach even 
the door of entrance. The Drill Club, composed 
of the fairest and most promising of the city youth, 
enlisted in a body. There was more than applause. 
Peal after peal of rapture went up from the inspired 
throng; and the "Glory Hallelujah," the "Star- 
spangled Banner," and Dr. Holmes's "Army Song" 
seemed really like the "New Song" of the Apoca- 
lypse. It was at the close of this surge of patriotic 
eloquence and fire that a city minister, having no 
knowledge of the author, read her poem, modest 
enough in her own estimation, but read as if the 
tongue had been touched with a living coal. It was 
to her a sweet and grateful satisfaction that the 
very modulations of the reader's voice, inspired by 
the Holy Ghost, gave pathos and thrill to her offer- 
ing that evening. In it she acknowledged God. 

FOUND READY. 
Respectfully inscribed to the Members of the 
Union Drill Club. 
Our country, she is calling 
With an agonizing plea ; 
To us she is appealing, 
Oh, help me to be free! 

Will you lay upon her altar 

Your sons so true and bold, 
Or cringe and see your heritage 

Pass from your hands for gold ? 

Have you forgot the patriots 

That fell upon the sod, 
And changed its green to crimson, 

With the life-tide of their blood ? 



221 

Have you enjoyed the blessing 
For which they nobly died ? 

Have you forgot old Lexington, 
Where they turned the battle's tide, 

And gave you back your liberty, 

With the free land they had bought ? 

You know for what they suffered, 
And shall it be for naught ? 

Now later still, "through Baltimore," 
Your brave troops fought their way, 

With steps that never faltered, 
Till cold in death they lay. 

Their blood to you is crying, 

" For every man that falls, 
Oh, send us thrice their number 

To go where duty calls ! " 

Go, raise the glorious standard, 

Then nail it to the mast 
(Like " Hart " on proud old Sumter, 

Where balls were flying fast). 

Then he, the God of justice, 
Will nerve your arm to fight, 

And lead you on to conquer ; 
For Right alone is Might. 

Now shall we pass, unheeding, 

McClellan in the van? 
While To arms ! to arms ! is sounding 

From " our prisoner," — Mulligan ! 

No ! stand we here together, 
With hearts true as the steel; 

We will not bow to despots, 
Or feel their iron heel ! 

We never will surrender, 
Our birthright never yield! 



Well raise the cross of Freedom, 
Or die upon the field ! 

The dear old flag is precious, 

Now floating proudly high, — 
Let it be pure and stainless 

For "our heroes when they die." 

Then mothers, wives, and sisters 
Go with us through your prayers ! 

You may send forth an angel, 
" Though so blindly unawares." 

And, if we fall in battle, 

Your hearts we know will bleed ; 

But would you have us waver, 
In this our country's need? 

If the place be always vacant 

We are leaving by your side, 
You know the cause is holy 

For which we fought and died. 

Then sully not our garments 

By tears your love would shed. 
We want them bright and shining, 

If found upon our dead, 

To nerve us for the conflict 

As we answer Duty's call, 
And hither bring our sacrifice, 

Our life, our hopes, our all. 

One of the delightful efforts of her love in 1862 
was the labor in unison with Miss Emma Lord, the 
teacher of the Select School in Pleasant Street. 
The girls and boys, twenty-six in all, made a patch- 
work quilt, and also held the first parlor sale in the 
city for the soldiers, realizing more than fifty dol- 



223 

lars for the childlike effort. It was an occasion of 
charm to the children, and not less so to Miss Lord 
and her helper. The moneys were expended in hos- 
pital stores, and sent to the Rev. J. W. Alvorcl and 
to the beloved and ever-to-be-cherished Mrs. Pom- 
eroy. The boxes were at Mrs. Farmer's. The day 
appointed for packing was July 22, — the birthday 
of her daughter. It was a peculiar joy to the 
family to have such a remembrance of that birthday 
of 1862. She wrote to a friend: — 

"Miss Lord came down with her whole school 
and as many friends as the pupils chose to invite. 
Mr. and Mrs. Beaman were there, and Xarleton' 
and his wife from Boston. After the work was 
done and our friends were all gone and our own 
little trio was left alone, we knelt and committed 
the sacred contents to the care and keeping of Him 
whose poor, sick soldiers were to be nourished and 
comforted by this, the work of dear, little school- 
children's hands. From that moment of consecra- 
tion I never doubted that all would go safely. It 
was months of silence in regard to Mr. Alvord's 
box, but, through it all, I knew that God had those 
needful things in his keeping, and that at the right 
time they would be found where they were wanted 
most." 

Most gratefully in another letter did Mrs. Far- 
mer write of the interest in the soldiers, of this 
teacher of these patriotic children: — ■ 

u The soldiers had no truer friend, nor is there 
one in our city who .has worked harder than did 



224 

Miss Emma Lord during the whole period of the 
war. She was among the first in the ranks, and 
with the latest to leave. She did a great deal for 
my May Day Fair, and was of much assistance in 
the distribution of funds." 

Mrs. Farmer and Mrs. Pomeroy had not met face 
to face at this date, but a loving recognition was 
already established; for they were indeed 

" Two hearts that beat as one." 

When Mrs. Pomeroy acknowledged her box for the 
sick boys at her hospital, she said : — 

"Please say to Mrs. Farmer, who feels such a 
deep interest in the soldiers, that what she has done 
we highly appreciate; and could she see the poor, 
wounded, and dying boys, when I give them of the 
things that were sent, her heart would yet more go 
out in love to God as he giveth her the means and 
opportunity. We are losing many by death, as the 
amputations do not do well. The cry comes, 'Oh, 
if I could only see my mother! ' or w my wife,' or 
4 my children.' And sometimes they say : 'Mother 
Pomeroy, teach me how to pray. Will you pray 
with me, for I want to meet my mother in heaven.' 
Such are some of the soul-stirring scenes I am now 
passing through. But the Saviour is here with us, 
and blessing us in our daily ministrations." 

We are not surprised that the saintly woman 
closed her epistle by saying that she had been in 
hospital work from the beginning of the strife, 
"and, if it be the Lord's will, I hope to remain till 



225 

the cruel war is over; for my whole soul is alive to 
the wants of the brave boys." Neither is it strange 
that, when these two consecrated women grasped 
hands a little later in Eden Home, Mrs. Farmer 
wrote, "It is the angel of the Lord that has been 
here." 

The Rev. Mr. Alvord's letter, read to-day, revives 
the memory of thirty years ago, when any tribute 
from camp or hospital was eagerly received and 
became an actual page of life to us: — 

"Washington, D.C., Oct. 4, 1862. 
"I have just returned from the battle-fields where 
I have been with the soldiers for nearly six months, 
and find your letter and list and a copy of a beautiful 
poem addressed to me, dated September 23. For 
all these I thank you, and am sorry that I could not 
have received the originals duly, that I might have 
thanked you sooner. These also I have now re- 
ceived, and I am happy to add that the box, too, 
has come after long delay, and in excellent order. 
The things which it contained are very nice and 
precisely what the poor, suffering soldiers need. I 
may add that already a good portion of these com- 
forts and delicacies have been distributed, and it 
would do you good to see the beaming countenances 
and hear the expressions of gratitude of those to 
whom they are given. Soldiers have no such pan- 
try full of goodies to go to as was in this wonderful 
box of yours, and, when they are sick, such luxuries 
not only help to cure them, but make them think of 



226 



home and bring the tears to their eyes. How I 
wish you could go with me into some of these hos- 
pitals ! You would almost be frightened; and yet 
you would follow along with me through the great 
rooms, and from bed to bed of the poor, wounded 
boys, very happy to stop at each one and do some 
little thing for them. I think it would be as good 
as medicine for them to see a string of smiling 
little girls coming along. Wouldn't the soldiers 
from Salem laugh if they could see your little soci- 
ety clustered around their cots, chattering away, 
and asking how do you do? and how do you do? 
won't you take a little of this? or won't you take a 
little of that? I am sure the very sight would half 
cure them. Well, I seem to see you at this with 
your precious box; and the poor fellows, when they 
know that these good things come from you, see 
you, too, in their imaginations. So it is, what you 
have done is excellent in a double sense. I wish 
all little girls knew how much good they can do. 
They would hasten before they became grown to do 
this double work. But I must make some explana- 
tion, lest you may think I trifle with the anxieties 
you have felt for so many long weeks about the box. 
You know I could not answer your interesting letter 
or acknowledge the beautiful poetry until I re- 
ceived the package which contained them. Why 
was it so long in coming? I will tell you. It was 
sent about the time we were in the swamps of the 
sickly Chickahominy, and only reached the 'White 
House Landing' in time to be taken back in our 



227 

retreat to 'Harrison's Landing,' and then it did not 
reach the latter place (as many things did not) 
until we had to retreat from there. It was then 
taken to Fortress Monroe, and then to Acquia 
Creek, and so on to Alexandria, not really reaching 
me until we were in Washington, or, rather, on the 
march and in the battles of South Mountain and 
Antietam. You see God would not let the rebels 
get it. It was saved for the wounded thousands of 
those dreadful battles. If you ask why I did not 
answer your kind letter of inquiry of July 22, I 
reply it was not sent on to me. Only the most 
urgent correspondence was forwarded, as amid the 
terrible scenes in which I was engaged there was 
no time for writing. Thank God that the box 
comes at last and in just the right time. And now, 
my dears, God bless you and love you, and make 
you his own dear children; and, when the war is 
over, or in heaven, I shall hope to meet you. 
"Very affectionately your friend, 
"J. W. Alvord, 

" Sec. Am. Tract Society.'" 1 

Of the little quilt made by the twenty-six girls 
and boys, it is remembered that Mrs. Farmer wrote 
an historical stanza, which was printed upon the 
central square with the names of all the donors : — 

"In Pleasant Street Hive is a bright swarm of bees, 
Not a drone can be found there to-day, 
While each with her work has gone to her cell, 
v ou shall hear what these busy bees say, 



228 



'We are making a quilt for the soldier's sick-bed. 

Each one in our school will contribute a square ; 
And, if stitches could speak, we should teach them to say, 

We will do all we can your burdens to share. 
For the help of our Queen Bee and teacher, Miss Lord, 

Our generous thanks now with love we accord.' " 

With such gentle and yet abounding ministries 
the year 1862 came to its close. The letters from 
her hand of feebleness were constant, but in the 
long interval they have slipped away with many of 
the soldiers to whom they were addressed. But 
unto God were they written as well as unto the 
boys in blue and their co-laborers at home; and the 
savor of them is unto Life Eternal. A tender 
tribute of Caroline, widow of Major A. B. Soule, 
pictures to us the life of the endeared friend of the 
soldier at this time: — 

" If I have not the dear letters she wrote me 
previous to 1864, when my husband was in the 
army, and also when I became a sorrowful widow, 
yet in my own heart she will never lose the place 
she has long occupied. I have lost but few friends 
I so deeply mourn as the dear one who now occu- 
pies the longed for mansion. There is a tie 
stronger than that of nature. When I first met 
Mrs. Farmer, she was on a bed of suffering in her 
little Bethel, as she called her bedroom at Eden 
Home. I took her hand, but we could neither of 
us speak. She was physically very weak, and wept 
like a child. I laid my head upon her pillow and 
wept, too. I was not in spirit a stranger to her. 



229 

for she had written me so many messages of heav- 
enly love and trust that I could not doubt that God 
was caring for me and for mine. None can under- 
stand how much I needed such a friend unless they, 
too, have had friends exposed to the perils and hard- 
ships of battle-fields. God gave Mrs. Farmer to me, 
and eternity will be none too long to thank him for 
the precious gift. I was not the only one who shared 
her loving words. If she heard of Christian 
soldiers, she urged them not only to defend the dear 
old flag, but to repel the hosts of Satan, too, in 
faith and zeal, within the camp or on the battle- 
fields. To the soldier who was not a Christian she 
sent her loving messages, telling him that by the 
power of a good life he could transfer the prisoners 
from the ranks of careless living to the glorious 
encampment of the Lord. Her many messages 
brought back responses of plain, honest hearts; 
and the good accomplished by her pencil, often 
feebly traced, Eternity only can tell. If she heard 
of a soldier's death, she was not long in ascertain- 
ing the friends who were left ; and she would send 
such soothing words that ''God bless her ! ' would be 
the utterance of heart and lips. She seemed to 
understand the power of verse and song; and, when 
she wrote, she raised the mind to heaven. 

"When I first met her, helpless as she was, she 
was getting up a Fair. It was to be in her parlor. 
But God so blessed and helped her that it was 
necessary to secure a public hall, and the largest 
one in Salem. She did much with her needle her- 



230 

self; but she did more with her pencil. She lay 
upon her bed and prayed and planned and penciled." 
As the year was dying, there came to Mrs. Farmer 
one of those unexplained premonitions of some 
coming ill, which gave a weight to her spirits and 
a tinge to her whole life; as she plaintively ex- 
pressed it, "unfitted and unharnessed me for any 
duty." It proved to be a foreshadowing of months 
in Boston, when her whole body was torn with 
pain, and death would have been a glorious release. 
A little poem, written by her in the latest hour of 
the year, says, — 

•• There's a dread in my soul 
Like the coming of gloom. 
Like the silence of death 
Pervading my room."' 

January, 1863, bore from her the little Lillie, a 
darling niece of three years, — a child of such singu- 
lar loveliness that she was born more angel than 
human. Hearts broke when she went away. In 
" Lillie' s home" at Boston was fulfilled the pro- 
phetic glimpses of the suffering Mabelle. In a 
letter she tells this story of the ending year: — 

"I am sorry that the old year left you sad. The 
experience was like my own. I could not grieve to 
see it go. In the last months of 1862 there was a 
weight upon me too great for human endurance. I 
tried to leave it all with Him who bears the heavi- 
est end of the cross, but I could not reach the sun- 
light with my will lost in that of my dear Father's. 



23i 

I could only wait and trust. I went out all I 
could, and far more than my weakness approved, if 
weakness only had been consulted. But I did not 
trust myself alone lest this grief should sweep over 
me like the torrent of the mountain. I did not 
dare to speak of it, and think I never did, with 
a single exception to husband. Surely, 'coming 
events cast their shadows before' me. 

"Last week I opened my portfolio, and found 'At 
midnight,' written on the last night of 1862. I 
had forgotten the stanzas. As I reread them, they 
seemed prophetic. The day I left my Eden for 
Lillie's home in Boston, I had the most singular 
feeling of loneliness that ever came to me. I said 
to husband, 'If I never come back, what do you 
think I most wish to take with me?' The dear eyes 
turned to mine with such an earnest gaze that I did 
not feel to tell him more. I only remarked, 'We 
never know what our coming home will be.' The 
vision of that day haunts me still. Do not think 
that I mean to go back, 

As mourners bear their dead.' 

Though, if my earthly days close in Boston, I 
should want to be carried to Eden Home, where 
those I love could be with me a little while, and I 
think I should see them. God bless you all, and 
give us a meeting on earth where the warm hand- 
clasp is more powerful than words. Jesus is pre- 
cious, and has told me he will go with me unto the 
end." 



XX. 



THE GARDEN OF PIN-FLATS. 

A NURSE in one of the many Soldiers' Hos- 
pitals, who communicated with Mrs. Farmer, 
directed a letter very quaintly and facetiously to 
u Eden, the Garden of Pin-flats and other Fruits."' 
This was significant. Eden Home was the centre 
of that most important and indispensable of all 
little conveniences in a hospital or camp,— the 
pin. 

Mrs. Farmer was one who never stopped to ask 
what she should do. She had the positive intui- 
tion to see and supply a need. The call to arms in 
1 86 1 found her most of the time upon her bed, 
gradually sinking into the helplessness of those 
whom we now call the shut-ins. To be useless was 
never a part of the will of God concerning her, and 
she began her sick-bed efforts by making pin-flats, 
socks, patchwork, aprons, and picking lint. Could 
you have seen her upon that pillow in 1861-65, 
a brow white as the snow, oftentimes definitely 
wreathed with lines of exquisite suffering, you 
would have said that she was excused from any 



233 

manual efforts. But the generous and outgoing 
soul only made her helplessness the reason for her 
super-abounding labors. She began with pin-flats. 

Her brother-in-law, whose name became a heri- 
tage almost as soon as the war opened (Hon. 
Charles Carleton Coffin), said in one of his letters 
of 1 86 1 : "It depends upon little things whether the 
army is to be active or passive the coming winter. 
The little things are to be done not wholly by the 
army, but by the fathers, mothers, sisters, and 
brothers at home." Yes, said Mabelle in her 
heart, little things, — the very crumbs. In writing 
to Mary Webber, she expressed it: "If the simple 
acts of my life seem to be productive of no good, it 
may be they will be crumbs for the need of the 
hungry." So she joyed to begin with the least of 
the little efforts, and she took the pin-flat. It was 
easy work for her sick fingers to hold. She had 
been in so many places where surgeon, doctor, 
nurse, had called for a pin, that an actual inspira- 
tion possessed her. Will you wonder if we tell it, 
that her own needle stitched and filled three thou- 
sand flats! Every one was baptized with prayer 
and not infrequently with tears. God gave her a 
gracious reward in the knowledge of the blessings 
these pins became. It is not strange that among 
the household souvenirs is the sick-bed thimble 
worn when these gems of helpfulness were stitched. 

" Carleton" wrote yet again : " Let every woman 
obtain a contribution from fathers or brothers of 
sufficient warm woolen yarns, and then knit a pair 



234 

of mittens and a pair of socks. How easy it would 
be for every soldier to have a pair of mittens and 
an extra pair of socks if the ladies would only take 
hold of it in earnest! There is many a smart girl 
who can knit a pair of mittens in a day." The 
journalist went on to say that he had received a 
letter from one who, though an invalid, was fired 
with energy and patriotism, and that she had asked 
her husband if he would willingly sacrifice a pair 
of socks she had completed for him, that some 
soldier's feet might be clothed and warm. The 
letter was from Mabelle, and is like the very tone 
of her voice, and will be as a phonograph to those 
who knew and loved her, and even yet hear the 
echo of her words : — 

''"'Dear Carleton, — Laid aside as I am from the 
active duties of life, I have not thought it was in 
my power to do anything for those who have gone 
forth with their lives in their hands, in defence of 
the dear old flag, only to follow them with a tear- 
ful benediction and an humble prayer to our 
Father that he would give his angels charge con- 
cerning them. 

"But your appeal has found its way to my sick- 
room, — and need I say to my heart? — and I have 
decided to forward to you, for the use of feet that 
will net run before the foe, a pair of stockings that 
I knit during the summer for dear feet, as the 
owner thereof has most patriotically offered to go 
without all winter, if need be, to add to the com- 
fort of even one of our noble volunteers. Though 



235 

they were not knit originally for the army, yet they 
are warranted true Union stitches. Please accept 
them with the promise that more shall be coming 
when weary hands are again able to resume this 
labor of love. Until then I shall try to remember 
that there is a blessing for those who 'only stand 
and wait.' If it is mine, it will be 'well' with 
me." 

To this gift of knitting she added a rhymed pen- 
ciling, and told "Carleton" to send the socks to 
"the bravest soldier at the battle of Ball's Bluff." 



IMPROMPTU TO A PAIR OF STOCKINGS 
FOR THE ARMY. 

Go forth on thy mission this work of my hand, 
Make warm the cold feet that now shivering stand; 

For they wander from home and loved ones to-day ; 
But tell the brave hearts that for them we pray; 

That our work with our prayers shall follow them now, 
Till the wreath of the victor is placed on their brow ; 

That our Father will guide their feet from all harm, 
And shield by his love from danger and storm; 

That he'll give his strong arm the strength of his might, 
And peace to the cause that is right in his sight. 



"Carleton," with his usual ready sense and 
responsiveness, sent the socks and the verses to 
Colonel Devens, to be disposed of at his discretion. 
Two weeks later, as the morning paper entered 
Eden Home, the eye met a recognition of the gift: 



236. 

"Your readers will remember that not long since 
I received a pair of stockings knit by an anonymous 
lady, — an invalid who, in her patriotism, desired 
that they might be forwarded to the 'bravest man 
in the battle of Ball's Bluff.' Not knowing who 
most deserved them where all were bravest, if the 
expression is allowable, I sent them to Colonel 
Devens of the Fifteenth, and have received the 
following reply, which will probably meet the eye 
of the invalid, who welcomes The Journal in her 
sick-room each mornino;: — 

"Poolsville, Md., Nov. 28, 1861. 

"Dear Sir, — I received the "pair of stockings 
sent by a Massachusetts lady.' I can hardly decide 
who was the bravest man at the battle of the Bluff, 
but I bestowed them on Captain Philbrick, Com- 
pany H, who commanded the advance-guard of the 
Fifteenth Regiment, and told him to wear them 
until I found a braver man in the fight. I think 
they will be worn out before I do. 

"Yours truly, 

"Chas. Devens. 

"The donor may rest assured that they have been 
most worthily bestowed. Capt. Philbrick through 
all the terrible fight was in an exposed position, 
but was cool and collected, and did his duties faith- 
fully. The gallant captain would doubtless be 
glad to return his thanks if the donor had not, like 
the Orientals, veiled herself from the public." 



237 

In one of her letters Mrs. Farmer told an ac- 
quaintance, "I always put something in prose or 
verse into all the stockings I knit." One day a 
printer who had read of the destiny of the socks of 
Ball's Bluff told her that his grandmother [Mrs. 
Elizabeth Jones, of Ipswich], verging upon the 
nineties, had knit eight or ten pairs for the army 
lads, and asked her for verses to accompany them, 
also; and she furnished the following lines, which 
were printed, and not only accompanied Grand- 
mother Jones's work, but were slipped into scores 
of other pairs of stockings as they were knit for 
absent ones : — 



" You were knit for feet that will not run 
When they meet the rebel foe ; 

And, since our work of love is done, 
We simply bid you go ! 

But keep in view our parting charge, — 
That no retreat you'll know ! 

" For brave hearts wait your coming now, 
Though on their cheeks are tears ; 

But 'tis for our heroic dead, 

Not through their craven fears ; 

Then, Father, hear our tearful claim, 
' God bless our volunteers !' 

" And watch them with thy loving eye, 
While far from us they roam. 
Grant to us strength our pledge to keep, 

We will be brave at homej 
And may they bring a spotless name, 
When back to us they come ! " 



2 3 8 

Two years after the battle of Ball's Bluff Mrs. 
Farmer received a letter from Captain Philbrick, 
which she reckoned as the kind thoughtfulness of 
her heavenly Father. It is a noble letter, and dated, 
Lawrence, Oct. 19, 1863. 

"I received a letter from Mrs. Derby a few days 
ago, and learned for the first time the name of the 
lady who knit the stockings presented to me by 
Colonel Devens after the affair at Ball's Bluff. I 
believed then and believe now that not a single 
officer in the regiment but deserved the compliment 
as much and more than your humble servant. But, 
as a beloved commander saw fit to bestow them 
upon me, I shall ever keep them as a memento of 
an occasion where I tried to do my duty. My 
greatest regret is that I was disabled, and had to 
leave the service. But my sympathies are with the 
Union and on the side of Liberty. Hoping that 
you may live to see our government firmly estab- 
lished, with liberty for its basis throughout all the 
land, I remain yours most respectfully. C. Phil- 
brick, late Lieut. Col. 1$ Reg. Mass. Vol." 

The pin-flat letters as well as those con- 
cerning the socks have a peculiar interest as we 
read them now. She wrote to a fellow-helper and 
soldier's widow, Mrs. Maria Kemp Crockett: — 

44 1 very unwisely promised beyond my strength 
to make something for three Fairs. I was obliged 
to give up a part of my plans. But I finished my 
pin-flats — one hundred — for the little black chil- 
dren at the South. Miss Kimball of Salem is 



239 

teaching the children, and she gives the flats as 
'Rewards of Merit.'" 

The following letter, written to one whose birth- 
day she never failed to remember, is probably a 
fuller version of the "one hundred," as well as an 
uplift to the curtain which reveals the days of pain 
when she ceased to work only as consciousness 
ceased : — 

"When your birthday morning dawned, it 
brought work for the little ones, and the Master 
said, c Do it in remembrance of me.' It is a privi- 
lege to work for him. You will be pleased, I 
know, to hear about it; and I will tell you, thank- 
ful that you are interested in every good word and 
work that I am. Early in December a lady, who is 
an entire stranger to me, sent me a Southern letter 
to read, and added that she hoped I should be able 
to render the school some assistance. I learned 
from the letter that a school at Portsmouth, Va., is 
taught by ladies of our Salem. Their room takes 
but twenty yards of carpeting, yet they gather forty 
scholars within it. The weather has been so cold 
that water froze in the room while they were teach- 
ing. 'The Son of Man had not where to lay his 
head,' so he understands all inconveniences. 
When the letter came, I thought I should be able to 
make some articles with my own hands; but my 
work has been to suffer. But my heart has borne 
those dear little colored children to the throne of 
grace every day; and he hears and answers prayer. 
I made, months ago, one hundred pin-flats, without 



240 

pins, and had laid them all away. I thought of 
these last Tuesday, and knew then why I had 
made them and kept them. So on your birth- 
day, instead of sending you the annual letter, I was 
as busy as a bee filling them with pins. It was 
very exhausting work. I am so weak that my hands 
tremble, and I could not get the pins even. The 
tears blinded me ; for I could not help thinking of 
the tender, pitiful Christ, and how long he had 
been saying, 'Let my people go!' and how slow 
we have been in our obedience. All the while I 
was at work I saw his beloved face turned upon 
me; and my soul was filled with peace such as the 
world never gives and is not able to take away. 
The work, sweet as it was, proved too great; and, 
when doctor came yesterday morning, he found me 
completely prostrated and unconscious. I remained 
in that condition all day. The distress in my 
head, before I forgot it, was dreadful : but even 
then I found comfort in thinking that the little 
pin-flats had gone to the contrabands. Dear, 
watchful ones have not yet found out that I am 
writing. They let me use the pencil sometimes, 
but not after such a headache as yesterday. So 
good-by for now." 

When another hundred of the round little con- 
veniences went to the Sanitary Commission at St. 
Louis, she received a marked paper, with the sig- 
nature of E. A. L. 



24 1 

" Rooms Western Sanitary Commission, 
"St. Louis, March i, 1864. 

"Editors Missouri ''Democrat ' : 

"The following note was received a few days ago, 
with a parcel of one hundred pocket pin-cushions. 
It will show that the soldiers are cared for, and what 
sometimes comes of it. The sick and wounded are 
sure not to be neglected. Think of this sick lady 
in Salem, Massachusetts, devoting her 'year's work' 
to the soldiers of Missouri! There is 'no East, no 
West.' 

"'These pin-flats are the work of a lady who has 
made them lying on her back, and very ill. They 
are her year's work. I feel this fact will assure 
the men they have some warm friends everywhere. 
A surgeon on the Rappahannock, who dressed the 
arm of a private badly wounded, said, "I have no 
pins or fastenings for this." "Put your hand in 
my pocket," replied the soldier, "and you will find 
a flat." The surgeon begged it to continue his 
work.'" 

A hospital assistant wrote to her: "Now what 
do you suppose I did with your pin-flats? Well, at 
the Winchester fight we had 225 men; at the Cedar 
Creek, 100; besides officers. So your pin-flats are 
a sort of Cross of Honor. And they are prized, too, 
no humbug about that. Then it is good for a 
soldier to tell how and why he got it." 

Another soldier wrote from Deep Bottom, Va., 
after an engagement: "During the fight over the 



242 

river the little pin-flat you sent was very useful. I 
used it in pinning the bandages of the wounded, 
and I read your letter to the soldiers." 

Lieutenant Alfred B. Mitchell of Company B, 
24th (colored) Infantry, wrote to Mother Dix at 
Woburn, "I distributed all the contents of the box 
except the pin-flats of Mabelle: those I will keep 
till inspection day." And after the day was over 
he added: "Well, the pin-flats are done gone. You 
would have been gratified if you could have seen 
them received by the Darks. They could not 
imagine why a person should do so much for them, 
who had never even seen them. Do you remember 
the pin-flat sent me by Mabelle two years ago? I 
carry it yet." 

Lieutenant A. E. Ball, Company C, 3d Iowa, 
wrote from Fort Pickering to the same dear Mother 
Dix: "Mabelle's gift of a pin-flat I am very thank- 
ful for: it is so useful and so small, which is the 
chief value of a gift to a soldier. Many think that 
a knapsack is very extensive, and the soldier a 
Samson. Her gift is no trouble." 

A teacher of the freed children, in a pretty and 
entertaining letter to Mrs. Farmer, said: "A 
number of the pin-flats have already been deposited 
in little colored hands, and have caused the eyes to 
sparkle. I have told the children of the kind lady 
at the North who thinks of them, and who made the 
pretty pin-flats when too ill to sit up." 

A curiously penciled memorandum from some 
now unknown dispenser of Mrs. Farmer's sick 



243 

hands gives us these unfoldings: "One pin-flat 
was given to the Inspector-general of Cavalry. He 
was in a battle in the evening, so dark that his aid 
found himself acting aid for a rebel general! He 
spurred his horse, and, on reaching Colonel Noyes, 
asked for a pin. The colonel took one from the 
pin-flat, when the aid grasped it, saying, 'That's 
just what I need.' The colonel now has another. 
This occurred twenty miles from Nashville. I 
supplied four surgeons. They use them continu- 
ally, and now send them to be refilled. Nine were 
given to boys in the 40th Massachusetts. Twenty- 
five were packed in a box going to a soldier; and 
I never write a soldier's letter without enclosing 
one." 

Another, who was laboring with the colored 
folk, wrote: "You said I should excuse the 
stitches in the pin-flats you sent. Indeed, Auntie 
Mabelle, I did not find any; but I suppose that is 
what you meant." 

The peace of God no doubt will fall upon us if 
we include in this chapter about little things a 
letter of the gentle Friend, Elisabeth Comstock, 
whose labors of love, like Mrs. Farmer's, closed 
only with her earthly days. It was written long 
after the war, but has the spirit of kindliness which 
was so magnified in Elisabeth during that period: — 

"Rollin, Mich., 7, 23, '81. 

"My dear Friend, Hannah Farmer, — Remember- 
ing how, while an. invalid, suffering, thou wast 



244 

interested in preparing the pin-cushions that so 
delighted our poor little refugee children and their 
mothers, I have thought perhaps it may interest 
thee a little to hear how we are getting along with 
our work, and, if able, thou mayst incline still to 
help us a little. We are now turning our energies 
and strength toward employing those who are able 
to work, and training and teaching the children. I 
have had a few thousands of the enclosed chromo 
struck off, and think by their sale we may derive 
help. How silently the little colored girl, as she 
sits in her simple attire on the old, broken chair, 
w T ith a crust of bread in her hand, appeals to the 
petted child of luxury on the velvet-cushioned seat, 
for help! By this mail, too, I send a few circulars. 
If thou wilt kindly distribute them where they may 
do good, thou wilt greatly oblige. I shall be much 
interested in hearing of thy health and welfare. If 
thou art not able to write thyself, perhaps thy dear 
daughter will kindly favor me with a few lines. 
May the peace of God that passeth all understand- 
ing be thy portion, thy dear daughter's also, in 
health and in sickness, is the prayer of thy sincere 
friend, Elisabeth L. Comstock." 

Elisabeth Comstock' s secretary enclosed such a 
quiet, beautiful tribute to her worth that we are 
sure it cannot be inappropriate to weave it into the 
same page with the cherished name of Mrs. Far- 
mer: "I have been writing for Mrs. Comstock a 
few weeks, and I never saw the Saviour's life lived 



245 

so perfectly, so patient under provocation, so for- 
giving when assailed, so cheerful as she goes about 
doing good : her sweet words fall like pearls from 
her lips, and such a great desire springs up in my 
heart to live nearer her blessed Master." 

No wonder, as we review the far-reaching power 
of what to the many may seem trivial effort and 
work, that we enter into the spirit of the 

" Old English motto 
Down by the sea," 

which has been a spur to the real and earnest, " Doe 
ye nexte thinge." Mrs. Farmer in one of her play- 
ful pages told Mrs. Soule in a summary way: 
" During the war I made between three and four 
thousand of the little pin-flats, and of course ex- 
hausted all the patience of my friends in supplying 
me with pieces. The handsomest always went 
first ; and I always felt as though nothing could be 
half good enough for my soldiers. Some day I will 
write out what good a pin can do." No, she never 
wrote it. It has been left for us to do. But most 
fitting is it that she tell in her own words, once so 
gladdening to us, the story of one of the little flats. 
It was written to a colonel at Fort Fisher. 

U A friend who believes that 'charity begins at 
home' said to me,, 'You have given four years of 
your time to the soldiers, and now what have you 
to show for it?' I answered that it was true, — 
nothing have I in my hand to bear me witness that 
my time has not all been wasted; but I have this 



246 

hope in my soul, that the recording angel has regis- 
tered, fc She hath done what she could,' and I would 
not exchange that heavenly indorsement for hoarded 
wealth. I tell you this, my friend (for one who 
loves our country well enough to offer his life for 
it is no stranger to me), that you may know how 
joyfully I took into my feeble, trembling hand the 
little pin-flat which has followed the bugle-blast 
as it sounded, 'On to Richmond!' and has been 
through all the varied experiences of a soldier's 
life, and, having faithfully performed its simple 
mission, has now returned to the hands which sent 
it forth like Noah's dove to the ark, bearing an 
olive branch green as the laurels that will ever 
rest upon your brow. God bless you for your will- 
ingness to take up arms in your country's defence; 
for the sacrifice you made in sundering ties of 
affection which bound you to the dear ones at home; 
for the honorable part you have borne in the cause 
of right against the powers of darkness, and last, 
but not least, for your kind and thoughtful care of 
the little gift which went forth to you on the breath 
of prayer, and now returns to bless and cheer the 
weary heart of one who has lived to suffer at home. 
As I took it from the letter, I seemed to hear its 
story at once; and I said, "Thank God! I have 
something now to show that the last four years of 
my life have not been wasted.' It may breathe no 
word to mortal ear, but it will whisper to my soul 
every time my eye rests upon it. Your little gift 
is to me better than gold. It will be most sacredly 



247 

cherished, and left as a legacy to some one who has 
been willing to labor for God and our country. I 
shall hold it until it can no more gladden the heart 
which is now reaping golden fruit from seed scat- 
tered by the wayside/' 



XXI. 

LILLIE'S HOME, BOSTON. 

THE divine plan strangely interferes at times 
with human arrangements. On the evening 
of Saturday, Jan. 8, 1863, the family went to Bos- 
ton, to the home of the little Lillie who was, to 
Mrs. Farmer, more than a joy. In the loss of her 
Baby Clarence, the little Lillie had crept into her 
heart like a substitute. It was the design, when 
Eden was left, to visit until the following Tuesday. 
The divine thought was six months of agonies in 
that Boston home, and then to be borne back upon 
a bed in a coach, hardly knowing whether the 
journey would be longer life or transition to glory 
on the way. 

The story of these months we must let her tell in 
her penciled pages. Jan. 15, 1863, she writes: — 

"Our precious baby Lillie has been very danger- 
ously sick of diphtheria, but, God be praised! is 
to-day considered out of danger. One week ago I 
took my bed, and have been under the doctor's care. 
Hope to be better soon. Shall go to Salem the first 
day I am able. We are thankful that you are pre- 



249 

paring a sermon for your new work, and wish that 
we could hear you preach it. We have not seen the 
dear Robson yet, but really anticipate with a great 
deal of pleasure his coming to our house. He has 
already endeared himself to us all. What a good 
young man he is!-" 

The "out of danger" alluded to was but the 
brightening of the spark before it went out. Jan- 
uary 19 was the final day. Of the overshadowing 
she wrote to Mrs. Stiles, a mother who had given 
her little lambs, one by one, to the Saviour's 
bosom : — 

"This trembling hand has often tried to do the 
brain's bidding and failed in the effort. Your 
letter so tender and touching came to us in a dark 
hour, when all the waves were going over me, when 
tearful eyes could no longer see the light beyond; 
but even then my faith in God was firm as the ever- 
lasting hills, and all was peace. I have no words 
that will express my gratitude to you for your letter 
conveying such a grateful sense of your sympathy ; 
but, when you come to me in my Eden, I trust the 
heart will find expression in language. Again I 
read your letter, and the tears fall like rain; for the 
words of your precious angel Maria were those of 
our blessed Lillie, and they were spoken for the 
last time a few moments before she went over the 
river. She looked up at poor Fanny, whose heart 
was breaking, and said: 'What is the matter, 
mother? Don't cry.' Oh, how those words and 
tones will ring in my ears until I go to meet her! 



2sO 



It always distressed her to see us weeping; and the 
last night of her life she wiped the tears from her 
mother's eyes, even when the blessed little hands 
were chilled with death. When Chislon first told 
me of you, I wept at the thought of what you must 
have lost. How little I dreamed that the cup would 
soon be pressed to my lips! Lillie, the precious 
lamb, was with me then. As I clasped her to my 
heart, I felt that dear little Maria's mother never 
loved her as I did Lillie, or she could not live 
without her. God has answered this question for 
me, my poor, suffering friend, and I pity you while 
I rejoice with you. 

"Dear little lambs! they are safe. Maybe they 
will find, love and commune with each other. But 
this w r e know: if we reach our Father's house, w r e 
shall find them safe. There is joy untold in this 
thought. Sometimes I want to see the dear Saviour 
face to face, and tell him how good he was to take 
the dear child from us in all her innocence. What 
an honor God has conferred upon us ! The mother- 
heart will quiver and bleed, but her faith will tri- 
umph in the darkest hour of her life." 

Again she recalled the memories of the little 
child: — 

"I never in my life saw so much sympathy ex- 
pressed by a child of her years. Oh, what trial 
would have been hers if she had been spared! The 
little children with whom she played would some- 
times make her believe that they were going to strike 
each other, to see what she would do. The dear 



251 

little heart would be ready to burst; and she would 
cry in terror, 'Oh, don't hurt her, don't hurt her!' 
Then no entreaty could keep her longer with them. 
She would fly to our arms to be comforted. Some- 
times it would be hours before we could distract 
her thoughts from it. What would have been the 
fate of such a child, had the mother been taken and 
she been left alone to battle with the storms! I 
tremble to think of it, even now that she is saved 
forever from it." 

To another lonely heart she wrote this story: — 
"When my sister Fanny's little Lillie was here, 
she said to Sarah one day, 'Don't you wish God 
would invite us to heaven to spend the day?' 
'Yes, I do.' 'Well, I am afraid if he should, I 
might not want to leave him and come home; and 
then mamma would be so lonesome without me.' 
Lillie never wanted to go out to play with the other 
children for fear that her mother would be lone- 
some. But, when the angels came for her, — and 
she must have seen them, — she said: 'Don't hold 
me, mamma. I must go.' Her mother told her 
she couldn't spare her; and she said, 'You must^ 
mamma, let me go; for I am so tired.' What 
should she know of the 'rest that remaineth, ' when 
her life on earth was but three years long? I was 
very ill then at her father's house in Boston, and, 
when the doctor told me that Lillie was dying, I 
wanted to see her. They took me in their arms, 
and carried me to her bed. She lifted her dear 
little white hand and laid it upon my cheek, and 



252 

said in a clear voice: 'Don't hold me, auntie, will 
you? Let me go: I am so tired.' I laid my face 
against hers, and she wiped the tears from my 
cheeks, kissed both of them, and said again, 'Now 
let me go, won't you, auntie? ' Her mother nestled 
the sweet face to her bosom, but no tears were 
on Lillie's face then, and no thought of the 
long, lonesome years before her mother. The dear 
eyes turned heavenward, and the words came 
faintly, k Let me go, mamma. Kiss me, papa. Let 
me go, I am so tired.' The doctor took me up, 
and turned me from the bed lest I should see the 
upward flight of the dear child who had been to me 
almost an idol. As the door closed between us, I 
knew that our next meeting would be with him 
who said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me, 
and forbid them not, for o; such is the kingdom of 
heaven.' This gracious text she repeated only an 
hour or two before she left her earthly home. The 
picture of Christ blessing little children hangs on 
my wall now, and Lillie's above it. Dear little 
lamb!" 

The memories of Lillie caused Mrs. Farmer to 
enter into a most tender sympathy with another 
babe, left behind when a very dear mother was 
taken, and of her she wrote: — 

" Her aunt says she is the handiest child she 
ever saw about the house, and that all she wants is 
somebody to love Iter. One day her aunt saw her in 
a room where a dress of her dead mother hung, and 
there stood that dear little child covering it with 



253 

her tears and her kisses. God only can tell the 
grief of that little soul who had no other place to 
pour out the agony which seemed always to be hid- 
den within." 

As weeks waxed into months, the prolonged and 
painful days were beguiled by her letters and the 
callers who knew her by name, but who had never 
seen her face. It was at this time that she met the 
woman whose love for her became as true and as 
lasting as a mother's, — Mrs. Dix. 

"Mrs. Dix, the mother of Hervey Dix, has been 
to see me. She is very motherly, and brings 
flowers and the most relishable things for my appe- 
tite. She brought me also a holly leaf from a 
soldier in Tennessee, and wished me to write some 
lines about it. I made sorry work of it. And 
Rev. J. W. Dadmun calls, and we are all becoming 
much attached to him." 

One most tender memory of Lillie's home was a 
brief morning call from Major Soule:- — 

"I shall never forget his call upon me at Lillie's 
home. Captain Hall was with him. They left the 
regiment, Maine 23d, at the Beach Street barracks, 
eating breakfast. The major was the highest 
officer in command that day, as superior officers 
had been separated from them for a special reason 
that morning. One would have supposed that he 
would have taken pride in crossing the city at the 
head of a returned regiment. But, because he 
stopped at my bedside to pray with me, another 
officer had that honor. How little he cared for 



254 

worldly display! He had left orders for the march 
as soon as breakfast was over; and, if he was late, 
he was to meet them at the station. Sarah went 
with him to the depot, and said, 'It will be too 
bad, major, if the regiment is gone.' He an- 
swered: 'There is never anything lost by doing a 
duty. It was for me to thank your poor sick 
mother for what she has done for me and mine since 
I have been in the service of my country. God 
will care for the rest." 

We gather from another letter which she wrote 
the gratefulness of an invalid for a cheerful letter: 

"I was glad to see your letter's pleasant face. 
You never write a word to grieve me or to make me 
feel that the world in general and myself in par- 
ticular is going wrong. Some whom I really love 
write me such letters as this. Did you ever get 
one, or does God see that only Mabelle needs the 
trial?" 

Once, when some of her dainty needlework had 
been sold to increase her soldier purse, she said: — 

"Did you ever feel particularly thankful that 
giving does not impoverish our blessed Lord? How 
often I think of it, and what a comfort it is to me ! " 

It was so natural to tell Mrs. Farmer the passing 
joys or perplexities of life that many of her letters 
were narrations of personal interests and often of 
domestic affairs. One letter of this date was from 
a young man who had written a war melody which 
had been set to music by William F. Keyes, who 
was then a member of an army band. The author 



255 

and composer met one Lord's Day at church, and 
the following letter recounts the brief exchange of 
greetings, as well as the history of the transient 
song: — 

"I have a pleasing little story to tell you, 
Mabelle. Do you remember the fascinating music 
to fc Put me down gently, boys ' ? and do you remem- 
ber also the photograph I sent you of the composer? 
Well, yesterday, at Lafayette street church, a 
young man was ushered into the pew directly before 
mine. His face was very familiar, and I looked at 
him a long time to recall the place and circum- 
stances where I had seen him. I judged he had 
been recently of the army; for he was browned 
by the sun, as are all the boys in blue when they 
return from the field. At last it flashed upon me 
that it was the young creature, William F. Keyes, 
who had set 'Put me down gently, boys,' to music. 
He is tall, wholesome, healthful, with a sensibly 
good face, which one respects at first sight. When 
sermon was out, I reached out my hand to him, and 
told him my suspicion. I introduced him to Rob- 
son, and then to Mr. Osgood and others of our 
choir, because they had familiarized themselves 
with his music. He told me the song was first 
sung in public from his manuscript on the last 
day of the Kennebunk Methodist Episcopal camp 
meeting, a year ago. The Rev. A. J. Church of 
the New Hampshire Conference asked for the loan 
of it, and sent the manuscript to the publisher. 
No further communication ever passed between 



256 

them, and he knows only that the sheets are before 
the public. Mr. Keyes has been connected with 
the band (Maine 27th), and returned only three 
weeks ago from the South. He is now visiting his 
sister in South Danvers, and has met our Mrs. 
Stiles. His sister's family move to South Berwick 
this week. So it was a pleasant bit of Father's 
kindness and personal interest that I should have 
met this young fellow just as I did, and have made 
his hasty call at Salem a greater interest to him 
and to us all. Robson and I walked the length of 
Essex street with him on his homeward way." 

A quiet little comfort came to her in a brief 
correspondence about The Little Corporal, several 
copies of which she then distributed. She wrote to 
a friend of it: "I had some money which my sick 
hands had accumulated from the sale of articles 
made upon my bed. I sent it to Mr. Sewall to 
furnish six copies to the orphans of soldiers." 
And, when the publisher acknowledged the money, 
he wrote that he had heard of her previously, as 
a soldier's widow had expressed it, that "earth has 
no honor suitable for Mabelle: Heaven alone can 
reward her for her works of love." To this Mr. 
Sewall added: "Such a tribute from a soldier's 
widow is one of the dearest rewards earth can give; 
not that you seek reward or praise, but, after all, 
it is sweet to feel that even our feeblest efforts 
are appreciated by those for whom we labor. It is 
sweet to be loved as you are. May God comfort and 
bless you!" 



257 

Of the six little letters which she received from 
the orphans, we have discovered one among her 
papers : — 

"My dear Friend, — For such I feel you must be 
to send me the nice little paper, The Little Cor- 
poral. The editor requested me to write to you, 
and I want to; for I think you must be a very kind 
lady to think of and to do for the soldiers' little 
children. My father went to the army from Iowa, 
and died when he had been gone only three months. 
He got cold marching from Springfield, Mo., to 
the battle of Pea Ridge, and was very near Fayette- 
ville, Ark., in 1862. I have a dear mamma, and 
sister Laura, five years old, and brother Howard, 
three years old. We do not go to school this win- 
ter, but mamma teaches us at home. Mr. Editor 
said you were a sick lady. I wish I could some- 
times come and see you, and read you some pretty 
stories from the Corporal. I can read better than I 
can write. How did you know about me and my 
name? Please write to me some time, if you can. 
Your little friend, A. B. H." 

When June came with its wealth of New Eng- 
land loveliness, a letter "written on the cover of a 
book" went on its mission to Beverly: — 

" My dear, precious Mary Webber, — I am not yet 
in dear Eden. It is all right. I have been so sick 
they could think nothing about it. When it is 
God's will, I want to go. Ask the robins to leave 
a few cherries on the trees till I come. Dear Caro- 
line Mason has written me a very interesting letter, 



2 5 8 

which you shall share. One day last week I had 
my wrapper, and was laid upon the lounge. The 
change produced the terrible cramps from which I 
have suffered so much for months ; and here I am 
again, as I was weeks ago. My courage is good, 
but that is all there is good about me. But I will 
not waste strength to tell you of this frail body. 

"Sarah wishes to go to Mount Auburn with you; 
but no, dear, you must not go on the Fourth of 
July. A part of my experience was to visit it once 
on a public day. No one could be admitted with- 
out a pass. At once I fell to moralizing, and 
thought of the Gate Beautiful above, and questioned 
my soul as to its right to enter there. Before I 
had time to settle the point, I was attracted to a 
lady in the deepest black, whose young face bore 
unmistakable proofs of a breaking heart. My 
being yearned at once to comfort her, and I said, 
' I am sorry for your sake more than for my own that 
we cannot be admitted.' She replied, 'There are 
little graves here that I have come all the way from 
New York to see, and I leave to-morrow.' If I had 
had a baby in heaven then, I should not have 
asked, "Then you have children buried here?' Not 
a tear followed the question, but a shaking of the 
whole frame as though soul were separating from 
body, and then a voice as from a cavern of desola- 
tion : 'When they took them from my arms, they 
were laid in a beautiful spot, but I am not with 
themP I felt that I must help this woman, and we 
succeeded in her admittance by pledging Mr. Far- 



259 



mer's name as responsible for any trespass of the 
ordinary regulations of the cemetery. God help 
her! was my thought as we parted. Now I can pity 
her, as never before, for I have a baby under the 
daisies. And is not Lillie, the precious child, 
who was as dear to me as my own, now sleeping 
beside him, where loving hands every day strew 
bright flowers? How large my heart has grown 
since that day! Now it pities all the Rachels who 
refuse to be comforted." 

Mary Webber, to whom the above letter was 
addressed, sent to the bereaved home in Boston a 
tender tribute, precious as gold, in memory of the 
transplanted child. Reread after these many days, 
and now that Mary herself has gone, it seems like 
a very note of her quiet and chastened voice : — 



LILLIE'S GRAVE. 

Earth has one pillow, only one, 

By tears unwet ; 
One couch no fevered dream distur' 

Nor vain regret. 

Here grief and joy, here love and hate, 

Alike are still ; 
No human voice hath power to wake 

Again their thrill. 

God sends his blessed sun and rain 

To cheer the spot ; 
Nor have his guardian angels e'er 

Their charge forgot. 



26o 

Yet Lillie's cheek upon that couch 

We lay with tears, 
Saying, " Give back, O grave, the form 

Our love endears." 

For like a fount that meets at noon 

The pilgrim's need, 
Whose silver waters gleam afar, 

And then recede, 

Was that sweet snatch of life and hope 

Our Lillie brought. 
Our hearthstone is so desolate 

Now she is not. 

We cry: "Give back, O Paradise, 

Our bud of love ! 
Our Lillie bloom will not be missed 

In fields above ! " 

What do ye, friends, who would say, " Nay," 

When Christ says, " Come, 
Come, little pilgrim, to the rest 

Of home, sweet home ? " 

" A child shall lead." Then heavenward press, 
O mourning band ! 
Lillie and Clarence both are there, 
Clasped hand in hand. 

One beautiful custom evolved from this life of 
pain was a premonition or foreshadowing of what we 
now call the Flower Missions, so grateful to thou- 
sands of fevered pillows. Both Mrs. Hanaford and 
Mrs. Webber, with great tenderness and devotion, 
sent basket after basket of flowers from Beverly to 
Boston; and the feeble Mabelle sent them out again 



26 1 



to other sick-rooms which had no loving ability to 
provide them. Once, when the church which Mrs. 
Hanaford attended celebrated a Sunday-school anni- 
versary, through her kindly intercession, the floral 
decorations of the sacramental table were thought- 
fully and willingly forwarded to Mrs. Farmer's sick- 
chamber, and became to her as sacred as the breath 
of God. Her worshipful heart took them as direct 
from the gardens of Paradise. She wrote a poeti- 
cal thanksgiving, which concluded as follows: — 

" Each has a language to my soul 
That makes the hours less long. 
Look in my heart, ye holy flowers, 
And hush each thought that's wrong. 

" Then break to me the living Word 
You heard but yesterday, 
Hosanna ! then, my heart will sing, 
When you have passed away." 

In the local paper which published the poetical 
response, the editor added a paragraph: — 

"At the close of the Sabbath-school anniversary 
services the bouquets which adorned the church 
were distributed, and one was sent to a gifted lady 
who is ill, in Boston. Although a great sufferer, 
having been obliged to keep her bed for several 
months, she was yet, able to respond, in the touch- 
ing poetic effusion to which we gladly give a 
place on our first page, with the remark that only 
the great truths taught in our Sabbath-schools 
could so support and cheer a weary spirit as to 



262 



secure such a song of praise and submission from 
such a couch of pain. Should any errors be 
noticed, let it be remembered that it came from a 
hand just able to pencil it. We know it will be 
read with interest by those who were present on 
that anniversary occasion." 

" My dear Mary Webber, — I must thank you for 
the beautiful wild flowers you have sent me in such 
abundance. What a pleasant reminder the water 
lilies are of the happy day at Field Meeting! I have 
shared all my flowers with a young man near our 
door, who is almost home. The dear child is ten- 
derly cared for, and loves his Lord." 

"Yes, dear Mrs. Webber, I am very tired, but I 
must assure you of my love, and again thank you 
for more beautiful flowers. How thoughtful you 
are of my happiness ! Last week my head was crazy 
with pain. I have written Mrs. Hanaford that it 
is now like a sieve, and everything runs through it. 
But my heart never forgets. I was constantly op- 
pressed with the thought of so many favors which 
God's dear children were heaping upon me, but a 
few nights ago the thought came as an inspiration : 
'They do it not for you, but as unto the Christ: are 
you not willing they should do all they can for 
him ? ' From that hour I have answered, ' Yes, ' and 
accepted all these proofs of love to him, as a child 
would take from your hand a gift for his mother. 
I often think how dear Sarah used to bound in from 
school with a joy too full for words, because she 



263 

had some little present for mother which had been 
sent by her hand to comfort me. As the angel 
directed Hagar to the hidden spring, the blessed 
Spirit, true to his name and office, directs his 
people to the waters of comfort, giving new glory 
to the promises, investing the Saviour's character 
with new loveliness and beauty." 

Most carefully did her heavenly Father guard her 
on the Fourth of July in Boston. With an un- 
speakable longing had she desired to be carried to 
Eden before the noisome day came. Neither doc- 
tor nor family would venture a. yes to her pleading. 
When the patriotic morning came, she found that 
God had made his own arrangements for the com- 
fort of her sick head and mind : — 

" My dear, good Mary Webber, — The dear Saviour 
has proved to be a present comforter in every hour 
of trial. It seems the depth of ingratitude to dis- 
trust him. You well remember how anxious I felt 
to be borne home before the Fourth, supposing I 
should be distracted with the noises of the night. 
But all felt that the hour of my going had not 
come. Well, just before the dreaded darkness 
came, a policeman took his position on our door- 
steps, and said that my Dr. MacFarland had left 
the order at the station, and that he was to be re- 
lieved by others until the Fourth was a day of the 
past! and that others were to be specially upon 
the streets near by, to keep all noises as far from 
the house as possible. This was most faithfully 
done. Do you not think God gives his angels 



264 

charge of me? I have not had a more quiet day 
since I have been in Boston, not even on the 
Sabbath. The doctor said nothing to us of his 
plans for my comfort, nor did we know anything 
about it until the police came and told us. How 
good everybody is to me ! " 

Notwithstanding the all-absorbing kindness of 
her heart, she had a sense of duty to people, which 
led her sometimes to a very common-sense talk; 
and at one of these conscientious pressures she 
wrote a minister, then in his first year of sermons : 

"No: I do not pity you because of the letter of 
the excellent Mr. Cox. You must get over the 
morbid sensitiveness of which he warned you. If 
you do not, you never can feed Christ's lambs; and, 
as this is your life-work, I shall ask God every day 
to help you to rise above it. If you do not, God 
will see it needful to discipline you, and in ways 
doubtless that will be harder to endure than any 
present depression." 

When it became evident that she could be car- 
ried in a coach to Eden, she wrote her last message 
to the two dear Beverly children, who had been so 
unremitting in their love and thought : — 

"I shall get a new lease of life at Eden. When 
you know the door is open, you will also know the 
loving heart awaits you. I am sure neither you nor 
dear Mrs. Hanaford will tarry for a public notice of 
the event, though I am vain enough to think I have 
friends who would read even that newspaper item 
with a glad heart. If our Salem editors do not ex- 



265 

press the joy for me, I shall have to write a card 
myself. Imagine me doing it! " 

The old home regained with an effort that carried 
her to the threshold of the grave, how joyful were 
her friends to find her once more! No joy in 
heaven can ever be sweeter than the gladness which 
now and then comes to us in the earth. The labors 
which followed her recruiting from the jar and 
weariness of the ride belong to future pages of this 
memorial. We close this mysterious story of her 
Boston days with a few of hej- penciled allusions to 
the sorrows which indelibly stamped the year 1863. 

" Thanksgiving Day, — My wrapper was put on, I 
was fixed up very nice, and they set me in the great 
chair at the dinner table to-day, with the dear ones 
who still make earth home to me. It was a happy 
hour; though Fanny's tearful face across the table 
told me more truly than words that the dear child 
who was with us one year ago was not forgotten. 
How thankful I ought to be that it was not in my 
power to fill that little empty chair by taking Lillie 
back to my arms and heart! Oh, my heart was 
aching so to see her once more! I am afraid that, 
if the power had been allowed me, I should have 
recalled her." 

"Your beautiful little kitten is lying upon my 
bed curled in a heap. You know that her mother 
was our dear little Lillie's kitten. We lost her 
coming from Boston, but she found her way back to 
Eden Home. [Who that had ever been there, 
would not find the way again? — Ed.] Oh, Eden, 



266 

sweet Eden! shall I remember your beauties in 
heaven? The morning our Lillie left Eden for- 
ever, her kitten could not be found; and I said, 
'Your kittie, dear, isn't anywhere in this house.' 
She folded her little meek hands on her lap, as she 
always did when grieved. For the moment the 
face turned toward mine seemed changed to marble; 
and then the choking sobs could not be suppressed 
as she said, u O auntie, what shall I do without 
her? ' —words to me now so full of meaning. How 
often they trembled on my lips! I could only find 
relief in prayer that God would fold her in his arms, 
and seal her as his own for time and eternity. 
Only two short months, and she was with the 
angels. The prayer was answered. Even now I 
am afraid that I am not a cheerful giver." 

The strange experiences of the year ended with 
one of interior inspections and searchings, which to 
Mrs. Farmer, as to other spiritual beings, usually re- 
sult in a higher stride in life. As she walked with 
her Lord in one of her Gethsemanes, a December rose 
from a soldier then in Tennessee came to her. It 
was a gift of God. Its fragrance was a fresh incen- 
tive. Her bitterness and perplexity of spirit 
waned. She wrote months later, "That hour of 
sorrow held the germ which blossomed into the 
May Day Fair." 



XXII. 



MAY DAY FAIR. 



FOR Mrs. Farmer to will was to do. The sor- 
rows and pains of 1863 evolved the divinely 
Herculean effort which blessed hundreds of soldiers, 
and drew to her the truest and sweetest of lifelong 
friendships. She projected, conducted, completed, 
the Soldiers'' Fair. Her holy Amen to the heavenly 
command which she heard from her Father's lips as 
1863 expired became a Hallelujah when the toil 
of her heart and hand culminated in May, 1864. 
She labored in love unto God. She received the 
reward of childlike obedience and the peace which 
is always hand in hand with divine harmony. How 
tenderly do we now gather up the memories of 
that far-away May Day! She was asked time and 
again to write the history of the Fair. Her sensi- 
tive shrinking from publicity forbade it. She did, 
however, gather up the letters which the venerated 
Father Cleveland wrote to her, and other valued 
and endeared pens; and she clipped the newspaper 
helps which the local editors with kindliest cour- 
tesy gave her, and these she boxed in 1867, and 
committed to the care and control of one of her 



263 



acquaintances. The box remained unopened until 
the preparation of this chapter. Like her own dear 
voice is the penciling upon a slip of paper, dated 
June 5, 1867: — 

"I never had such a realization that the May Day 
Fair was God's, and not man's, as I have had this 
morning. It seems like a miracle. I am humbled 
in the dust as I recall my past days, and see how I 
have despised small efforts and the doing of little 
things. Our God indeed is a wonder-working God. 
To think of his noticing the puny efforts put forth 
to help our dear soldiers! Oh, I want all the 
world to see what our God can do ! But I shrink 
with untold dread when I know that my name, so 
unworthy, must go with it." 

Caroline Mason, knowing the nature of Mrs. Far- 
mer and the peculiar hesitance concerning the use 
of her name, wrote very practically to her : — 

" In regard to nom de plume, I have always found 
the people prefer the name in full. I formerly 
had the signature Caro, until I found others claim- 
ing my writings; and so, urged by my friends, I 
consented to use my name in full. I feel queer to 
this day when I see it in print. Still, I do not 
shrink as you do. Please get over it; for Mabelle 
will be known, whether she wishes it or not. Her 
devotion to the soldiers alone will make her im- 
mortal." 

No: Mabelle will not crimson now at the sound 
or the sight of her name. Amid the comforts of 
the Beyond will be her Lord's divinest approval. 



269 

Before committing the Fair papers to her friend, 
she wrote to him: "All my memories of the May 
Day Fair are to be given to you, dear Chislon. If 
God lets you stay here longer than I do, then you 
can fix them as you think best. It is all that will 
be written about me after I am gone. There is 
nothing else to say." 

. Within the box she had laid another slip of 
paper: "My dear good Mother Dix thinks poor 
Chislon could not perform this labor of love if 
Mabelle were lying under the daisies. But, dear 
child, I shall never be far away from you if the 
tired, weary spirit flies away and is at rest before 
the work is completed. All I ask is that you will 
give God the glory. If he sees that his cause can 
be advanced by showing to the world how little I 
have done, my hand shall never hinder it." 

So, when she had sealed the historic material, it 
was left a quarter of a century, to be read and com- 
piled when she is gone away. 

To Mrs. Soule she told the probable inspiration 
of the occasion : - — 

" Dear Mrs. Soule, — My first duty is to God; the 
next to my family; and then my country and the 
boys who saved it deserve all I have to give. Who 
can wonder that the cause is dear, when it is one for 
which I am willing to die ? My friends shall have 
no cause to complain of want of love to them. God 
only knows how dear they are to me. But time is 
short. My life-work has been so imperfectly done 
that I feel as though I must be about my Father's 
business." 



270 

She labeled a little printed paragraph as follows: 

"This was the first word in our local papers con- 
cerning the Fair. Do you remember coming to 
Eden the day I was writing to the different editors 
of Salem, and saying to them that not a word should 
be in type of the one who was to hold the Fair? 
Do you remember what you told me? " 

No, we do not remember; but it was evidently 
some desire that she should have the meed of praise 
from hearts and tongues, for she wrote : — 

" I bow my head with shame. The only credit I 
can take is the suggestion of the Fair; and that 
belongs not to me, but to Him who gave me the 
tenderest and most motherly love for his dear and 
sufferins: soldiers. If all the success belonged to 
my skill, energy, or executive ability, I do not want 
it. There is no element in me to which it would 
minister. From my present standpoint the praise 
of people is of little value. God be thanked that 
I do not crave it." 

The first local card which came to the eye of the 
Salem public reads: — 

"A lady of Salem, who has been for more than 
a year unable, on account of sickness, to render 
any material assistance to our sick and wounded 
soldiers, has been collecting articles for this object 
from her friends in different States. These will be 
offered for sale at Mechanics' Hall during the day 
and evening of Monday, May 2. Each article will 
bear the name of the donor. Major Alfred Little 
will be present with his melodeon, and will pro- 



271 

vide a rare musical entertainment. 'Father 
Cleveland,' the aged missionary at large of 
Boston, now in his ninety-second year, still daily 
active and useful, has promised, c God willing,' to 
be present with his wife. Seldom will we have 
an opportunity to see a man retaining his powers 
unimpaired so late in life! Carleton, the war cor- 
respondent of the Boston Journal, has been invited 
to be present and speak. This may be expected, 
unless movements on the military chess-board de- 
mand his presence elsewhere. Several novelties 
are to be introduced, of which mention will be 
made hereafter." 

As soon as the New Year's impulse had shaped 
itself, she prepared a letter for the department 
in the Temperance Visitor called " Uncle John's 
Table." Mrs. Farmer knew that prayer and a lead- 
pencil would stir hearts by hundreds, so she began 
her diligent task: — 

"Eden Home, Salem, Mass., Jan. 15, 1864. 

"My dear, young Friends, — It is very pleasant to 
me to stand outside and look in upon the happy 
group around your good 'Uncle John's Table ' ; but 
I am afraid, if I should ask you to let me come in 
and join your circle, that you would shake your 
heads wisely, and say, 'Oh, no, indeed, we could not 
think of such a thing: you are too old, auntie.' 

14 As I cannot plead 'not guilty' to such a charge, 
I will just ring my little bell to attract your atten- 
tion, as I have a real nice story to tell you; and it 



272 

is all the better because it is a true one, and that 
is the only kind I ever tell, for the world which I 
live in, alas! it is real. Then how can I roam in 
the poet's ideal? 

" To me, for more than a year, my world has been 
bounded by the walls of my room; and the most of 
that time I have been confined entirely to my bed. 
But I would not say this complainingly, for I feel 
that it is ordered in love by One who knows just 
what kind of discipline I need. But, while I 
have been thus isolated from the world, I have 
not lost my interest in it; and my desire to be 
useful and relieve our suffering soldiers, who have 
so nobly defended the dear old flag, is just as 
strong as it was in the days of health. But weak, 
tired hands can do but little now, and my brain 
must be made subservient to them by invoking help 
from you. 

"I propose to get up a little Fair for the soldiers' 
benefit, and would invite each one of you and as 
many of your friends, old or young, as you can find 
willing to assist you, to send something for my 
table. If you do, I want your names and resi- 
dences affixed to each article, that all my friends 
who may come to buy of me may know whose work 
it is. This will be a new feature in a Fair, and the 
table will be quite a curiosity, as I expect to have 
a great many States represented. 

"I would like to have the sale on May Day, if I 
can, and I have already begun to collect my articles 
for it. This invitation is extended to the boys of 



273 

your circle, as well as to the girls; for all of them 
write too good letters not to be able to do some- 
thing. If you engage in this, it will be purely 
a work of love, and I think you will find it 'more 
blessed to give than to receive.' My own soul 
will, I know, be strengthened by attracting to me 
the sympathies of the dear children whose happy 
faces I wish I could see in my chamber; though, if 
one of them should happen to be a sweet little girl, 
three years old, the tears might come too fast for 
me to see them, for only one year ago our angel 
Lillie went up the shining way, and we still miss 
the little pattering feet, so quick and ready always 
to do our bidding. We miss the dear little meek 
face that was so fair and beautiful to look upon, 
and the voice is lost to our mortal ears which 
filled the house with music; but the knowledge 
that she is safe brings us peace, and we have lived 
to praise God that w it is well with the child.' 

" Pardon me for thus turning to you this leaf in 
my heart, and do not think of me as being sad and 
unhappy; for I am cheerful always and willing to 
suffer, knowing that by and by I shall find our 
Lillie blooming in the paradise of God. 

" It would make me very happy to receive a letter 
from you all; for, as I read yours in the Visitor, and 
see where they are written, I find I have friends in 
the same States. This brings you very near to me. 
If you should write or send me anything for my 
Fair, you may direct to Mabelle, Salem, Mass., Box 
277, and it will reach me safely. If I am not 



274 

able to answer you separately, I will thank you 
each by name in a letter to the Visitor, if your good 
Uncle John will print the rhyme for us. 

"But, if he don't, I won't call him 'cross' or 'bald- 
headed,' but I'll tell him about a pair of 'witch 
hazel eyes' that would sparkle like diamonds if they 
could look up and see 'my Uncle John,' from the 
Old Granite State. 

"But a truce to joking. While you are working 
forme, do not think that I shall be idle; for I expect 
to make a great many things myself, lying here. I 
am very grateful to you for listening so patiently to 
my story; and, when the Fair is over, if God spares 
my life, I will write you the sequel in verse. But 
will you ask Uncle John to send me something, 
too? My courage fails me. 

"Affectionately yours, 

"Aunt Mabelle." 

The facile pen of Carleton was enlisted, and he 
sent a column to the press which proved an inspira- 
tion, perhaps the most effectual of anything written 
upon the occasion. The confidence and strength 
imparted by his very signature were well expressed 
by Caroline Mason, as she wrote of his article, and 
then added : — 

"I always read Carleton 's letters in the Boston 
Journal with satisfaction. He is hopeful without 
being sanguine, moderate, yet earnest, and there is 
the stamp of truth on all he writes. He makes no 
attempt to mislead or delude with false hopes or 



275 

special promises of speedy success. Yet always in 
his words is a prophecy of the good time coming. 
I cannot help sending him, through you, my kind- 
est regards." 

Professor Farmer recalls a pretty little history of the 
article written by Carleton. It was a few days before 
the opening of the Fair. Carleton came to the Pearl 
Street Home, and saw the accumulation of articles 
for the tables. They filled perhaps a dozen boxes. 

"Is this collection all? " said the practical man. 

"All," was the quiet response. 

" And you have engaged Mechanics' 1 Hall! " he 
continued, more in exclamation than query. 

"Engaged Mechanics' Hall," was a second quiet 
rejoinder. 

"Why, Hannah, you are crazy." 

"Then you must write an appeal," said the suf- 
ferer with womanly wisdom that matched the sage- 
ness of the philosopher who had pictured battles 
and hospitals as if his quill were fire and blood. 

Her words fell. The soil was good. The pen 
was dipped afresh. The appeal went out, and 
Mechanics' Hall tables were filled with beauty and 
daintiness. The article of Carleton is not only a 
revelation of Mrs. Farmer's effort, but is also a 
historical fragment of days never to be forgotten : — 

"Devotion to the Country. 

"When the records of this great struggle for the 
preservation of the country are gathered up, they 
will present a patriotic devotion and sacrifice un- 



276 

paralleled in the world's history. There is but one 
spirit animating the hearts of the truly loyal, — to 
bear all and do all to preserve the Union from de- 
struction and the country from desolation! From 
the soldiers on the battlefield, facing the storm of 
shot and shell, to the poor needlewoman earning 
her scanty subsistence, there is the desire to do all 
that can be done. Great cities and country vil- 
lages have held their Fairs to aid the soldiers, and 
millions of dollars have been freely contributed; 
but there is no abatement of enthusiasm. The 
hearts of the people have taken fire from spontane- 
ous combustion: but, like the burning bush which 
Moses beheld, it burns, but is not consumed. The 
reason is manifest. The cause is holy. While 
the most wonderful Fair ever gotten up is being 
held in Xew York City, there is another one 
(which in some respects is not less wonderful) in 
preparation in our neighboring city of Salem. It 
will be truly wonderful, in that it will be an in- 
stance of the overflowing of pure patriotism under 
the most adverse circumstances. There is a lady 
in that city who has been confined to her bed more 
than sixteen months, suffering acutely and in- 
tensely at times; but, though shut in from the 
world, she has loved the cause of the country. 
The welfare of the soldier has been her constant 
thought, her theme of religious devotion. How 
could she, so weak and feeble, obliged to be minis- 
tered unto, so hedged in, contribute to their wel- 
fare? How could she help save the country? This 



277 

question, of so much importance to her, was settled 
Jan. i, 1864. Every heart must have its course, 
and every mind its work: she must do something. 
She determined to hold a Fair, although at that 
time perfectly helpless. The wish was made 
known to a few friends. Some opposed it, fearing 
her life would be sacrificed: others thought it 
simply impossible. But, her resolution taken, 
there was no turning back with her who conceived 
the enterprise. The work has gone silently on : 
the articles are being gathered, and the Fair will 
open on Monday, May 2, in Mechanics' Hall, Salem, 
Mass. Contributions are coming in from persons 
in very many of the loyal States. From the Aroos- 
took in the far down East, from Chicago of the 
great North-west, New York, Ohio, and all the 
New England States. 

" One of the many affecting incidents in connec- 
tion with this enterprise is that of a little blind 
girl, who heard of what this lady had undertaken, 
and her sympathy was at once aroused. What 
could she do for the soldiers? The active brain 
and tender heart soon found work for the willing 
hands. Various kinds of bead and needle work 
were soon fashioned into forms of beauty by her 
delicate sense of touch. Her heart was in the 
work, and she did what she could. When they 
were finished, she gathered them up in her arms, 
and was led by two little girls to a house where 
they were being collected, and there she presented 
her gifts to the soldiers' Fair. 



278 

" There will be many a moist eye by the camp-fires 
along the Rappahannock, beneath the shadow of 
Lookout Mountain, in the hospitals of Vicksburg, 
as this incident is read. There will be stronger 
arms and braver hearts in the hour of battle, from 
the courage inspired by the tender memories of 
'Mabelle's May Day Fair.' What a subject for 
the painter, — 'The Blind Girl's Offering to her 
Country ' ! Who of our artists will make it historic 
upon the canvas? 

"Most of our readers are doubtless familiar with 
the picture entitled 'The Spirit of '76,' — the hur- 
ried departure for the war, the old man's blessing 
to his son, the pale face of the mother, the sister 
packing the knapsack. It stirs the blood to behold 
it. But the thought of this little blind girl's gift 
touches all the finer sensibilities of the heart. 
There are thousands of our readers who, we doubt 
not, are ready to contribute to this Fair, not merely 
because they can aid the great cause by so doing, 
but to show their appreciation of this effort of an 
invalid woman and a sightless child. 

"Carleton." 

Mabelle herself published an appeal which one 
of the editors prefaced with a very kindly and true 
commendation. "The whole affair," said he, "is 
an outgrowth from the eager desire of a sick and 
suffering invalid to do something for her imperiled 
country, that which was originally designed for a 
little neighborhood undertaking having culminated 



279 

in a Fair for which the largest hall in the city is 
none too large, and for which contributions have 
come in from many cities and from distant States. 
The following appeal from the author of the Fair, 
written from her bed of sickness, is earnest and 
touching enough to soften all hearts : — 

" Salem, May 2, 1864. 
"In the providence of God, I cannot say to you, 
'come! ' but in the name of a suffering Christ, of 
his dear soldiers who sleep to-day in 'unremem- 
bered graves,' of those who have been borne back 
to desolate homes and breaking hearts, as 'mourn- 
ers bear their dead,' of those who are forming for 
us such an impregnable breastwork behind which 
we are so safely sheltered, while they are waiting 
ready to do or die, of the thousands of wives, 
mothers, and sisters whose agonizing cry is going 
up to heaven, ' Let not thy hand, O God, fall here ! ' 
In the name of all these memories, I tenderly and 
earnestly invite you to go. Put your shoulder 
to the wheels of the little feeble load now strug- 
gling up the hill, and God grant that it shall re- 
ceive such an impetus from your strong right arm, 
nerved by a loyal heart, that its wheels shall turn 
forward, not backward, bearing help and succor to 
those whose cry may soon reach our ears, 'Come 
over and help us.' 

" Christ, my master, bids me suffer, 
Not to do his blessed will; 
Bids me fold my hands in silence, 
That he may some others fill ; 



280 

Bids me wait beside the river 
Till revealed his hidden will. 
Oh ! it needs the strongest patience, 
But I'll love and trust him still ! 

"Mabelle." 

Besides the press, Mrs. Farmer had the most 
devoted and efficient co-laborers, — women who 
helped with hand and heart, if they did not hold 
the pen. Of one of them, whom she loved with 
utmost devotion, she wrote : — 

"Mother Dix is such a blessing to our soldiers. 
She has given time and money. She has cared 
for all alike, whether friend or stranger; has writ- 
ten mare than a thousand letters, for the whole Iowa 
Third was her special care. When the records of 
this war are revealed in the glow of Eternity, what 
a glorious page hers will be! What a harvest will 
be gathered in her name from the seed sown upon 
the sod which covers the dust of her son Hervey's 
grave! Did you know that her daughter is a nurse 
at Port Royal? and her services are invaluable." 

To another she suggested the kind of work she 
wished her to do : — 

" My dear Mrs . Stiles, — Not long ago I read in a 
paper of a woman who presented to Governor 
Andrew, for the use of a hospital, a scrap-book 
arranged by her own hand. Another paper sug- 
gested that our girls go to work and make scrap- 
books for the same use. This was what I was 
intending to do one year ago. My book and the 
pieces were all ready. I gave Chislon one like it 



28l 



at the same time. But you know, dear, that the 
last year is a lost one to me. Its record, however, 
I must meet again. What shall it be? Ever since 
the New Year came in I have been trying to do 
something for God in those around me, but all has 
thus far seemed a failure. This week I got out all 
my pieces again, and the book to paste them in, 
but I can do nothing with them upon my bed; and 
here I must lie, you know. When I found I could 
not accomplish it, I could think of no one else but 
you to undertake it. It will occupy you a week, 
using all your spare time. Tell me truly if you can 
conveniently spare that? The pieces are about the 
war, for such selections will be more interesting to 
the soldiers than anything else, — their thoughts are 
turned to that subject so exclusively. I like the 
work myself very much. It is never a trouble to 
me; and to relinquish the scrap-book to another is 
a sacrifice. But, if you will fill out the pages, I 
will send clippings, book, flour, and the oil of cin- 
namon to savor the paste; and I shall exhibit the 
book at the May Day Fair. Ah ! this war has im- 
posed on us all such duties and sacrifices. I have 
no son to give, but I give myself" 

How truly she expressed it, — I give myself ! and 
to her friend at Eliot, Miss Susan Hammond, she 
used the same words, shaping thereby a vow of con- 
secration : — - 

"With God's help, I will no longer live for my- 
self. I consecrate all that I have been, am, or 
ever hope to be to my country's service, counting 



282 



not my life dear, if I can only be the means of 
good. God never requires of us anything we can- 
not do. Here is my hope, — that he will accept the 
efforts I am making in behalf of those who have 
been willing to lay down their lives. What do we 
not owe them? What would our homes be worth 
to-day but for them ? " 

To a lady who freely offered to be present and 
help according to her ability, Mrs. Farmer sent a 
gladsome page : — 

"What a song of thanksgiving went up to our 
Father this morning when I read your promise 
to help at the Fair; and to think you wrote it as 
the first words of the letter, too! It makes it of 
double value. The Lord reward you, and I know 
he will. It may be the reward will come by per- 
mitting the angel, which nestled in your bosom a 
few short years, to minister to you while you are at 
work for your divine Lord and Master. This war 
is his; and all that we do for his soldiers is 
accepted as though the service were rendered to him 
in person. What a privilege that we are allowed 
to do our little for him in this glorious war! Your 
darling child, now one of God's dear angels, will 
smile upon you in your lonely hours, and you will 
often seem to hear her little fingers at work with 
you; and then you will realize as never before that 
she is helping you. Once she thought, 'Mother 
can help me,' and now you know she will help you 
bear the cross to the end of the journey." 

Caroline Mason, in behalf of her little boy, sent 
a letter : — 



283 

"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — My little boy wants to 
give his mite to the Soldiers' Fund which you pro- 
pose. God give you success in your noble plans, 
and crown you with health in his own good time, 
and be it soon. I have lately busied and interested 
myself in making a 'comfort bag' for some brave 
soldier. I filled it with everything that I could 
think would be serviceable. My sympathies, or 
rather my special labors, are with the freedmen. I 
would I could do more for both; but I fancy the 
contrabands have less immediate and efficient aid. 
God bless all endeavor for suffering humanity, 
black and white. The enclosed is a contribution 
by my little son, Atherton P. Mason." 

Again Mrs. Mason, "forwarding a collar for the 
Fair," breathed from out her careful spirit : "God 
support you and comfort you on your bed of pain, 
dear friend. Do not call your life wasted. It 
is one full of experiences which are leading you 
to the true life which is hid in Christ our Lord. 
Your effort for the soldiers does not look like 
waste. Only do not exert yourself so much that 
the soul shall wear out the body. What shall I do 
for your Fair? You suggest a poem. I write so 
often that I am all used up. My husband quite talks 
at me for such incessant use of the pen. But, if 
you can do perpetually, I certainly should do some- 
thing." 

From the New Hampshire hills a woman sent a 
token and a letter written at the bedside of a suffer- 
ing soldier husband, in which were the inspired 



284 

words: "The morning light is breaking: let us trust 
in our God. He governs the battles." A New 
York gentleman furnished a medallion of Longfel- 
low. One of the tenderest communications which 
she received came with an offering from Mr. Rip- 
ley Ropes, once a Salem lad ; and, after an acknowl- 
edgment from her, in which she alluded to the 
pathetic ordeal of his then recent bereavement, he 
again sent a missive which has all the more interest 
to-day because he in the strength of a noble man- 
hood has passed out of human sight : — 

"Your beautiful letter, dear Madam, is at hand. 
My tribute to the May Day Fair has proved the 
truth of the proverb : ' Cast thy bread upon the 
waters, and thou shalt find it after many days.' It 
has brought me that which I value beyond words. 
We shall prize it as a rich treasure. Your allu- 
sion to our angel Alice touched us deeply. Two 
weeks before her departure her little brother went 
home. The tender patience of the dear boy taught 
us rich lessons of childlike trust. But the cup was 
not full; for on the Fourth of July God called 
Alice by the awful baptism of fire. When I 
reached her, burned as she was, I put the cup from 
me ; but the dear one taught us to drink it. The 
last hour of her life was full of sweetness, eclipsing 
all the horrors of the burning. 'Father, I am 
going to die. I shall see little brother. You will 
all come. We will welcome you.' Then gazing 
upward, her whole face lighted with supernatural 
brilliancy, seeing what we could not see, she passed 



285 

into the final home. God give you strength, dear 
Madam, to carry out all the work you have so faith- 
fully inaugurated. Ripley Ropes." 

Mrs. John H. Meader, of Hamilton, whose patri- 
otic husband went to the army, and whose beautiful 
baby boy went to the Infinite Bosom a little after, 
gave a tribute which had been baptized with the 
tears of a mother's desolation: — 

"Please accept, dear Mrs. Farmer, the little gift 
which I send to the Fair. The stockings were knit 
for the little feet that passed through death's cold 
river before they were needed to be worn. That 
dear babe was all that was left to cheer me when 
papa went out to defend his country. Now I wait 
his home-coming with mingled feelings of joy and 
tears, for Milly is in heaven." 

From Gassett's Station, Vt., came a quilt from a 
child five years old: "Little Lily read your letter 
in the Temperance Visitor, and wanted to do some- 
thing for the soldiers. I could not think of any- 
thing but patchwork. So she pieced it all alone, 
though I cut the squares and basted them. She 
says, 'Tell the lady your little girl pieced them 
up' ; and she sends her ten-cent piece for the 
soldiers. When she came to the last square, she 
was sick, coming down of lung fever. But she 
could not be persuaded to put it by. U I want to 
get it done, and you can send it to the lady.' But 
she grew so tired she said, 'Lay it up, ma,' and 
I added the last stitches. She was very sick, but 
is now recovering. God bless your undertaking." 



286 



(The quilt bore the child's name and age at the 
Fair.) 

One of the letters she received will vividly recall 
the war days to the wives and housekeepers who 
were obliged to plan a thousand new ways of econ- 
omy, because of the extreme prices. The writer 
told Mrs. Farmer of her joy of benevolence, even 
though she " turned our old dresses upside down, 
and pressed our children's hats over on a strawberry 
box, — now don't laugh at me, — and cut and made 
the pants and vests, because I cannot only save 
money, but cloth, which is quite an item in these 
days. A lady saw my little daughter at church, 
and came to me to ask for the pattern of the child's 
new sacque. 'It is the neatest thing I have seen,' 
she said. I was obliged to respond, W I have no 
pattern' ; for I fitted it by my eye out of an old 
cape, badly moth eaten, given me by my aunt. I 
run under a dozen little patches, bought some gal- 
loon, took the buttons for it from her winter cloak, 
and really it is a garment as pretty as I could 
wish." 

An affectionate letter came from her "dear Aunt 
Effie," as Mrs. Farmer always called the widow of 
her uncle, Thomas Shapleigh : — 

"My very dear Niece, — Your letter I perused last 
evening with much pleasure, and feel a very true 
interest in the good cause. I will do all I can to 
aid you, and will endeavor to send my four children, 
and be there myself, if possible. Mrs. Burnett, a 
lady once of Salem, offers to send a loaf of cake 



287 

with a pure gold ring, and will use her influence to 
draw others to the Fair. I wish I could step in this 
morning, and give you one kind embrace. I shall 
never forget the kindness you bestowed upon your 
dear Uncle Thomas the last time he visited you. 
I often think, if his precious life had been spared, 
what a pleasure and interest his growing up chil- 
dren would have been to him! Our blessed Lord 
ordered it otherwise. I trust we shall ever feel as 
he, dear soul, expressed on his dying-bed, a per- 
fect reconciliation to the Holy Will." 

A stranger writes to her: u How many mothers, 
sisters, and wives will call down blessings upon the 
head of her who, though suffering in body, has a 
strong, loving heart filled with interest for the 
soldier and sympathy for the friends of the dead 
heroes!" And to this she adds: "Though your 
trials are manifold, yet, with Mr. Farmer for a life- 
long companion, you cannot be long unhappy: he is 
so good and tender and affectionate, so patient and 
cheerful. He has been tried, and not found want- 
ing." 

And one who had never seen Mrs. Farmer, in 
writing to Professor Farmer, said: "Although Mrs. 
Farmer is laid upon a sick-bed, yet how much she 
does to cheer our brothers in arms! All have her 
sympathy and friendship. All love her, and find in 
her a friend indeed. She speaks always the words 
of hope." 

Of the child interest in the Fair, Mrs. Farmer 
was exceedingly pleased with the frankness of Allie 



288 



R. Seabury, a lad of twelve years. She kept his 
two letters. He sent a beautiful handkerchief 
case, and said to her: — 

"When my Temperance Visitor comes, I walk 
right into the parlor and peep into its fc Letter Box.' 
I read your appeal to the girls and boys to aid the 
dear old flag. I thought, 'What can a boy of 
twelve do?' I guessed my sister would help, and 
I found her more than willing; and now I send my 
present." 

In his second letter he told her: — 

" I love to work for the soldiers, though there are 
not many things a boy can do. In the spring I col- 
lected two barrels of vegetables, and sent them to 
the Christian Commission. This summer I gath- 
ered a great many herbs, and my mother dried and 
packed them. Doctor said there were fifty dollars' 
worth. Mother and sister meet with the commit- 
tees and sew; and the ladies send a box a month to 
the Christian or the Sanitary Commissions." 

Another child-gift was a quilt for a disabled 
soldier from five little girls in Ludlow, Vt., and 
another bearing twenty names. A wounded soldier, 
made warm and comfortable, wrote a thanksgiving 
letter which eventually found its way to the five 
different homes. 

When Mrs. Farmer's appeal reached Benton Bar- 
racks, a boy in blue wrote to Mother Dix, "Many 
daughters have done nobly, but Mabelle excelleth 
them all." 

A pretty little sheet of encouragement came from 
a visiting doctor of McLean Asylum : — 



289 

"My dear Moses, — This morning a man came in 
and paid me a fee long due, and which I hardly- 
expected would be brought to me. I enclose it. 
God bless your undertaking." 

Mrs. Farmer's dear friend, Mrs. Rowe, added 
to a letter of fellowship the story of a soldier's 
mother, sad enough, but only too real : — 
. "I have been to see that poor, distracted soldier's 
mother. She feels as if she never should get along 
without her darling boy, who, she says, was the 
head of the family. She would like to have his 
body. I hope she will get it. May God help her! 
I look upon my own manly boy, and think of 
God's mercy. Fred is a well-spring of joy to me. 
How good God is to spare my darlings to me! " 

Mrs. Maria Kemp Crockett, who wore the weeds 
of a soldier's widow, sent a collection that she had 
made for the tables, and Mabelle's response was: — 

"When I think of your gift, your real gift, laid 
so cheerfully on freedom's altar, I can never feel 
that I have done anything; though God sees the 
heart, and knows I want to be of some use in the 
glorious cause." 

When a quilt, given to the Fair, came unlined, 
Mabelle appealed to the dry-goods merchants of 
Salem. To her joy, so noble was the response that 
not only was the quilt completed, but with the 
generous residue a comforter was made, and eighty 
aprons, and every article sold. 

It is remarkable that the three years' efforts of 
Mrs. Farmer met with but two personal repulses. 
One of them called out this word from her pen: — 



290 

"I sent a penciled note, asking for assistance. 
The appeal was made by a hand so feeble that it 
could not, unsupported, hold the pencil. It was 
answered in the most tense and abrupt language. 
Her words burned into my heart and brain, but they 
did not palsy a single effort or tempt me to turn 
back. My heart filled with unutterable pity. 
What a golden opportunity she lost for enriching 
her soul ! " 

The language of the above letter expresses the 
manner in which Mrs. Farmer met any opposition 
in any work. The spirit it reveals perhaps had its 
birth in her father's wise teachings; for she once 
wrote of him to a clergyman who had held some 
social evening for the mental as well as spiritual 
development of his flock, and in his effort had been 
sufferingly misapprehended by critical lambs of the 
fold: — 

"My father was a living proverb, and to me he 
will never be anything less. I used to be vexed 
with the school-girls, and then go to him with my 
trouble. Once he said, 'Sit on my knee, and sing 
to me.' When I had finished my song, he said, 
'Run, dear, to your books, and remember that your 
father has always found that molasses catches more 
flies than vinegar.' Try this in your parish. I 
am glad that you gave that fretful woman a dollar 
for her needs, provided that you prayed for her then 
and there. Now let me say, What do you care if 
they did report that you had a parish ball? Don't 
you allow such a word to be spoken to you, as you 



291 

value your peace of soul. The one who would tell 
you is worse than the person who first uttered it. 
Go on with your direct work every day. Silence 
in you is more expressive than direct words." 

As we read the autographs of some of the May 
Day Fair letters, we find they have already become 
historical. One letter was from Governor Andrew: 

" Commonwealth of Massachusetts, 
" Executive Department, 

"Boston, April 29, 1864. 

"The accompanying silver spoon has been given 
to Mabelle's May Day Fair at Salem by a daughter 
of a patriot of the Revolution. The father, its 
original owner, received honorable wounds in his 
country's service; and the daughter desires by this 
gift to aid the same worthy cause." 

"John A. Andrew, 

" Governor of Massachusetts" 

The never-to-be-forgotten Samuel Hartley Tay- 
lor, LL.D., of Andover, called the Arnold of New 
England, under whom Professor Farmer fitted for 
Dartmouth College in 1837-38, sent the following: 

" Mr. Fai r mer : My dear Sir, — I regret that my 
time did not allow me to get up something special 
for your good and patriotic wife's Fair to-day. I 
hoped to have been able to send you some Dead Sea 
water; pebbles from the Phalarian Harbor at 
Athens, where Demosthenes used to declaim, hold- 
ing them in his mouth; relics from various places 



292 

in the East and on the continent, etc. In default 
of all which I enclose a small sum, merely as a 
token of my admiration of the efforts of your wife 
and my love for the soldier." 

Professor Alpheus Crosby of the Salem Normal 
School dated a very courteous recognition of her 
work April 20. 1864: — 

"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — I rejoice in the suc- 
cesses of your efforts for the noble cause which 
combines so eminently the claims of both patriotism 
and philanthropy. I hope that the benefits which 
you are conferring upon others will return to your- 
self in the relief of pain and the restoration of 
health as well as in the joy of beneficence. Mrs. 
Crosby joins most cordially in regards to you both, 
and in the best wishes for the May Day Fair, and 
for the noble object it is intended to promote." 

Albert D. Richardson, the journalist, Artemas 
Ward, the humorist, Father Cleveland, the patri- 
arch and nonogenarian, are names of interest, and 
are blended with many a public weal and knowl- 
edge. 

And of Father Cleveland, she said, "Remember, 
I would not take the weight of these letters in 
gold/' 

Soldiers' mothers wrote most tenderly, for they 
loved the devoted Mabelle. Mother Dix was al- 
most daily sending words of cheer. Mrs. Derby, 
the mother of the slain Captain Richard Haskett 
Derby, wrote of Carleton's speech in Boston, and 
his exhibition of the auctioneers' slave steps. Miss 



293 

Eliza Story sent a written message, as gracious as 
the lips that would have uttered it : — 

"I am gratified that Mrs. Farmer will have funds 
to bestow upon the Army and Navy Union. May 
others follow so good, so cheery an example! and 
our poor sufferers, who want so much heart sym- 
pathy and aid, meet it, and be encouraged to be 
happy, and to believe they have friends in the 
world. Mrs. Farmer's soul never sleeps: it is 
always vital, and awake to all good influences. Her 
guardian angels must be many, not one alone, 
which we poor creatures are allowed to believe is at 
birth allotted each of us. But love to her; and all 
good wishes to you whose happiness is so bound up 
in each other." 



XXIII. 



THE DAY CHRONICLED. 



THE day of the Fair came. A pleasanter com- 
pany never entered the hall. The press had 
been exceeding kind. The notices had been well 
spread and well read ; and, as a consequence, it was 
a large company. It was not an ordinary occasion 
or gathering. Many came directly from a commun- 
ion like that of Jacob, when he said, "Peniel, the 
Face of God." Mrs. Farmer's pen has revealed a 
picture too sacred for print and yet too expressive 
of the hearts of many to be withheld : — 

" Major Soule had died on the 7th of February, 
and Mrs. Soule and her daughter Emma came to us 
on May Day. It was a sore grief to Mrs. Soule to 
come. Her own dear soldier husband was where 
she could no more give the ministries which we 
were endeavoring to bestow upon the sick and 
wounded. In that early morning, while yet the 
dew glistened upon the sod, the two knelt by his 
precious grave, and sought strength for the duty 
before them. How tenderly their angel folded his 
wings above them, and whispered comforts to the 
hearts that ached! What could they do without a 
Saviour now? Major Soule said to me that they 



295 

had been able to cheat themselves into the belief 
that they were the happiest family on earth, and we 
may surely believe it." 

People equipped by prayer and endowed with holy 
courage would certainly make the Fair a success. 
For the opening hour Mrs. Hanaford prepared a 
friendly 

GREETING. 

Dear friends, you have come from a home of joy, 

To cheer the heart of the soldier boy; 

And God will bless you in giving now, 

That his parched lips and his throbbing brow 

May be bathed by nurses your gifts may send, 

O'er the hospital couch in love to bend, 

That the brave young hero, whose mother far 

Is longing to be where the sufferers are, 

May not in his weakness and pain be left 

Forgotten by men and of hope bereft, 

But the comforts prepared by a distant hand 

May be given to him by a loving band, 

Who nobly have left each home and friend, 

'Mid our brave defenders their strength to spend. 

Then buy to-day with a right good will, 

And strive our coffers with gold to fill. 

Ye are toiling for God while ye purchase here; 

And God will say, as he beckons you near, 

" Inasmuch as ye did it with will so free, 

And for Freedom's friends, it was done to me" 

Perchance your dear ones are far away 

On the field of strife near the foe to-day. 

Your hearts are thrilled as you think of them, 

Your eyes with a mist, love-born, grow dim ; 

You think of the farewell tone and word 

Your ears with a burst of anguish heard, 

Your aching hearts tell the same true tale, 

Which we all have told, as our cheeks grew pale, 



296 

When the tidings came of a battle won, 

And the cry rang out, " Oh, where's my son ? " 

" My brother, where ? " " My husband, say, 

Does he rest in a soldier's grave to-day? 

Or is he safe from the rebel foe, 

Yet wounded and suffering? We long to know ! " 

O mother, sister, wife, or friend ! 

You would have some gentle hand extend, 

In the hour when wounded or sick they lie, 

The draught of life that they may not die. 

Then send to-day by our willing hands 

The balm for the wounded of many lands, 

Your dear ones, ours, or the stranger's love, 

All heroes, with our best flag above, 

And the peace that is born of duty done 

Will fill your hearts as the means are won 

To cheer the suffering soldier boy, 

And give him a taste of home's sweet joy / 

Mabelle herself wrote an appeal which was widely 
scattered before the Fair and among the gathered 
people on the occasion. That it was effective is 
evident from a letter which says: "Your little 
poem of appeal moved many hearts. The more of 
them you send me, the more I can circulate. God 
prospers willing hands and hearts, doesn't he? 
Your words are absolutely true : — 

" 'Then your soul may crave His blessing, 
And our country yet may live ; 
But we must not be unmindful 

That He knows how much we give.' " 

This soldier's appeal was entitled "How Much 
shall I Give? " and its response was: — 



297 

" Give as you would if the Union 
Could be saved by you alone; 
Give as you would if you're grateful 
To brave men for what they've done. 

" Give as you would if the angels 
Waited for it at the door ; 
Give as you would if to-morrow 
Found you where all alms are o'er. 

" Give as you would if your brother 
Was the one your gold would feed ; 
Give as you would if the future 
Would be sealed by such a deed. 

" Give as you should to the soldiers 
What our flag is worth to you ! 
Give as you should, largely, freely, 
If your work their hands must do. 

" Give as you would to the Master, 
If you met his searching look ; 
Give as you would of your substance, 
If his hand your offering took ! 

" Then your soul may crave his blessing, 
And our country yet may live ; 
But, dear friends, be not unmindful 
That he knows how much you give." 

The hall was an enchantment. The magic of 
Mabelle's universal love held, balanced, and beauti- 
fied the throng, even though she was not present. 
The easy pen of Mrs. Hanaford has told, the story 
of the day, and her report rendered to the Visitor 
twenty-seven years ago will again give us the 
picture : — 

"Mabelle lives twelve miles from me in the city 
of Salem, Mass., .and cannot therefore control my 



298 

pen, so I will tell you a little about her. She is 
a model of patience and submission ; and her sick- 
room, though often the scene of severe suffering, is 
yet cheerful with the light of her trustful spirit, 
reflecting the radiance of heaven. She is a marvel 
to those who know her best for her cheerful resig- 
nation and mental activity, and more than ever a 
marvel now that, after more than a year of confine- 
ment to a sick-bed, she has had the self-denial, 
patriotic devotion, energy, industry, and persever- 
ance to accomplish more than most who are well 
can or do accomplish for the suffering soldiers of 
our noble army. We who have health fairly feel 
like pygmies beside her. But she will not thank 
me for words of praise, however well deserved; for 
she prefers the 'Well done' of the Master to the 
applause of his servants. 

" Let me tell you of the Fair. It has proved a 
wonderful success. Help and helpers came from 
all quarters. Mabelle's pastor (Rev. C. C. Bea- 
man) and his wife were there to render efficient 
aid. So also was Mabelle's sister-in-law, the wife 
of Charles C. Coffin, whose letters in the Boston 
Journal, signed 'Carleton, ' you have all read with 
interest. I hope you have also read his book, 'My 
Days and Nights on the Battlefield,' for it is a 
book all loyal young Americans should read. 

"There was a Portland table at the fair, entirely 
furnished by Captain Winthrop H. Hall, who has 
served in three enlistments, and has now enlisted 
for the fourth time. As a private, he was with 



299 

the Massachusetts Sixth when it went through 
'bloody Baltimore.' He was present at the Fair to 
assist. There were separate tables, well filled, 
from Boston, Chelsea, South Maiden, Roxbury, 
Lynn, and several from Salem. The Auburndale 
table was wholly furnished by the family of the late 
Captain Richard Derby, who fell in the battle of 
Antietam. A beautiful portrait of the hero was 
exhibited, and his mother and only sister were pres- 
ent to attend the table. The articles on the South 
Maiden table were collected by a lady who lost her 
only son in battle. There was a song and music, 
entitled 'The Patriot's Grave,' composed in refer- 
ence to his death, for sale there. By the way, all 
of you who have pianos ought to have that piece; 
for the touching words were written by 'Mabelle' 
and the plaintive music composed by her husband, 
who is, as perhaps you know, the electrician and in- 
ventor, Moses G. Farmer. On the Roxbury table 
were articles made by a little blind girl, who heard 
of the Fair, made the articles neatly, and then got 
two young companions to lead her to the place, that 
her own hands might place them among the gifts 
of hallowed patriotism. 

"Major Alfred Little was present, and con- 
tributed largely by his musical entertainments to 
the success of the Fair. Everything was conducted 
in admirable order; and the gross receipts amounted 
to over a thousand dollars, over eight hundred of 
which will probably be clear gain, to be used for 
our suffering heroes. 



lOO 



tw I must not forget to say that Rev. Charles 
Cleveland, the venerable city missionary of Boston, 
now in his ninety-third year, was present at the Fair, 
but was taken ill and was obliged to leave. His 
picture was for sale there, and some excellent lines 
composed by our dear Mabelle in reference to it. 

"Mabelle did not attend to all this in person, of 
course, but she planned the whole; and so great 
was her care and effort that during the week before 
the Fair she was very ill, and the physician said she 
must give up the care of the Fair, or she would die. 
'I cannot give it up,' was her characteristic reply; 
4 but I will ask God to take it.' She did ask him; 
and he took it, and furnished abundant help. She 
first thought to do all this on January I ; and, until 
ten days before the Fair, all the planning was done 
by herself. Then intense suffering compelled her 
to receive aid from others. Nor was it all in plan- 
ning that she labored. She wrote many letters 
soliciting aid; and with her own hands she per- 
formed wonders in making cushions, dressing dolls, 
etc. How many of us lying on a sick-bed could 
do so much? " 

One of the Salem papers made a pleasant histori- 
cal reference to the table of Mrs. Derby, mother of 
Richard Haskett Derby, the lamented young officer: 

"The descendants of Elias Haskett Derby, whose 
splendid mansion once occupied Derby Place where 
the market house stands, came from Auburn- 
dale, and opened a table at the fair, — four ladies; 
namely, the widow of Elias Haskett Derby (the 



301 

grandson of Elias Haskett Derby, whose house is 
referred to), and her daughter and grand-daughters. 
On this table were the pictures of the only son of 
this widow, who fell at the battle of Antietam, a 
lieutenant of great bravery and having the most 
amiable qualities of character. The love for this 
young man, regard to his memory as a soldier, and 
grief for his loss brought here persons in the direct 
line of descent from our merchant of other days, 
whose fame it is that he sent the first ship from 
America to the East Indies, and thus opened a door 
for that lucrative trade so associated with the 
renown and prosperity of Salem. Sad, indeed, are 
the bereavements of war; but, in this case, it was 
pleasant to welcome these ladies who came to aid 
in succoring the wounded and sick soldiers." 

Another table attracted a sorrowful attention. 
It was designated "The Hospital Table," and was 
furnished with articles solicited or made by the 
patients in the House of the Good Samaritan at 
McLean Street, Boston. Miss Mira Eldredge, one 
of the sufferers at this resort of the sick, originated 
this table. Mrs. Farmer, wishing to share the 
beauty and zest of the Fair with her bed-ridden sis- 
ters, sent a box of dainty needlework the day be- 
fore the sale for the McLean sufferers to examine 
and enjoy. Miss Eldredge from her pillow of pain 
responded: "The box, which was open for an hour 
in our ward, made us feel as if we, too, had been 
at the Fair. I have prayed earnestly that God's 
smiles may attend you in your work, and it result 



302 

in a successful May Day. Poor soldiers, how much 
even the sick can do for them ! " 

A little after, when Professor Farmer left an- 
other joy at McLean Street for them, Miss El- 
dredge's response gives us a glimpse of some hours 
in suffering life which those who are in the health 
of God may not comprehend : — 

"Excuse me that I sent no word to the door to 
Mr. Farmer when he brought the package from you. 
I was just then indulging in a violent fit of weeping 
from actual pain, — quite a rare thing for me. I 
had suffered so constantly night and day for several 
weeks and my nerves were so jaded that, when my 
dinner was brought, I felt too sick to eat, and so 
concluded to enjoy a good cry. But, after enjoying 
the contents of your box, I almost forgot my pains, 
and was as happy as ever. The beautiful wreath 
hangs at the foot of my bed, and reminds me al- 
ways of your sick and delicate fingers, which 
arranged the leaves with so much taste. Almost 
every visitor admires it." 

One very noticeable attraction of the hall was a 
huge pyramid of pop-corn. Nathaniel Knowlton, 
the son of the dear Aunt Isabel whose name ap- 
pears in these pages, prepared a bank of parched 
corn. It is thus described: — 

U A beautiful pyramid was made of these bags of 
corn for the centre of Mabelle's table. A huge 
branch of pine cones was placed at the apex, and on 
the cones tiny flags were arranged very tastefully. 
It was a great ornament." 



303 

The dear old mother could not let the barrel of 
corn go to Salem without a gracious word to the 
niece she loved so much, and for whom she had 
unceasingly prayed; and so she wrote: — 

"My dear Niece, — I write a few lines to put into 
Nathaniel's barrel of popped corn. I think he felt, 
while at work, that it was a great privilege to do 
something for our poor, suffering soldiers. I wish 
you had been here to see him catch the spare 
moments, when he came in to eat, to make the 
paper bags to put his corn into. He thought it 
would sell to better advantage and look prettier on 
your table. I hope, dear Hannah, that you will be 
able to attend. I guess people would buy of you 
sooner than of any one else. 

"My dear niece, how is your health? Do you 

have to lie and bear your afflictions yet? How 

good is God to give you so much patience and grace 

to bear all he sees fit to lay upon you ! 

'We will wait till Jesus comes, 
And then be gathered home.' 

"Is Alfred Little to be with you at the Fair? I 
should like to hear him again play his melodeon. 

"I suppose you will have Aunt Kenney's hooked 
rug for your table. She had but just got it done 
and laid away to press, when the paper came from 
you, sent up by your mother. After her tea she 
was thinking of the May Day Fair. She wondered 
what she could send you. 'There is my rug,' she 
said; and at last she concluded the soldiers should 
have what it would bring, more or less. 



304 

"Dear Hannah, do you not hope the war and 
fighting is almost over? But what will become of 
all the wicked men? God have mercy on their 
souls. I think of the poor soldiers every day, away 
from friends, home, and standing in defence of our 
country. I think of those in the hospitals, and 
know not how soon, poor lads, they will be gone. 
Two of my sons are volunteers, and their families 
are now with me." 

Among the donations to the tables were photo- 
graphs of the venerable missionary, Father Cleve- 
land. In connection with them was distributed 
the tribute to his name from Mrs. Farmer's pen: — 

How calm and beautiful the face 

Which lies before me now, 
As if God's hand had set his seal 

Upon that noble brow, 
And left no mark for it to bear, 
Save Christ's dear image mirrored there ! 

Bow down, my soul, with reverence now, 

And here behold the power 
Of holy deeds and words of love 

To gild life's evening hour, 
And shed a halo round the night, 
Sweet prelude to the morning light. 

But, when God's angels take him home, 

Will heaven to him be 
More perfect than the one on earth, 

Whose glories he can see ? 
And is the song far sweeter there 
Than his, whose breath is praise and prayer? 

With childlike trust andyf/z'^/ love 
(His life hath made it meet), 



3°5 

I crave his blessing on my head, 

While kneeling at his feet. 
If once his hand could on it rest, 
My soul would feel it had been blest, 

And gather strength to bear life's cross, 

Nor wish to lay it down. 
For, though I bend beneath its weight, 

No thorns are in my crown, 
Like those my blessed Saviour felt, 
When in Gethsemane he knelt. 

Dear living Christ ! Thy ways are just, 

Though dark my path is now; 
But thy dear hand will lead me home, 

I will not question — how! 
But, while the storm is passing by, 
In thy strong arms secure I'll lie, 

And bless thee for this earthly love 

That strews my way with flowers; 
And for this last, most precious gift, 

Which came in life's dark hours. 
Now, from this face so saintly pure, 
I'll learn in patience to endure. 

Dear " Father Cleveland's " blessed work 

Will ne'er on earth be done. 
The good he's wrought can never die, 

Though he the crown has won. 
And God himself will bid him come, 
To bear his ripened sheaves all home. 

God bless him still, and spare his life, 

To guide those who would stray ; 
And, when he can no longer work, 

May he still live to pray ! 
For prayers will bring the blessing down, 
And give him stars for his bright crown. 

Carleton, called to Washington not unexpectedly, 
but to the sorrow of all who desired to listen to his 



306 

"Battlefield Experiences," wrote Mrs. Farmer a 
letter with a breath divine in it : — 

"Washington, 26 April, 1864. 

''''Dear Sister, — I send a note stating why I can't 
be with you as you desired. I don't think I shall 
be missed in your grand combination of attractions. 
We are on the eve of a terrible struggle. I do not 
doubt that fifty thousand men will need care and 
attention before July. It makes me shudder to 
think of it. Oh, how much it costs to establish 
justice in the earth! But we cannot avoid it. It 
is God's wisdom and man's necessity. The strug- 
gle must go on till the foundations of justice and 
equity, equal rights for men of all colors and 
climes, are established. We are meeting with 
reverses, but we shall succeed and triumph in the 
end. It is God's work, or rather he has made it 
ours. We help him. Glorious privilege! 

U I am waiting the preparation. I have no 
speculations as to what will be. 

"Your affectionate C." 

With arrangements like these, and helpers in- 
spired not only by the hour, but by the Holy Ghost, 
was the May Day Fair inaugurated, carried through, 
and stamped by the divine approval. The entire 
sentiment of the people and the occasion was voiced 
in the motto which shone through the stars and 
stripes on the wall, — 

" Honor to the Brave, 
Our highest glory! " 



XXIV. 



THE GARNER. 



EVERY work, divine or human, has its hour of 
completeness. There is never anything left 
finally undone. The May Day Fair, a labor in the 
Lord, became a finished effort. It was an interest- 
ing company which waited with a heavenly curiosity 
to learn of its fruitfulness. Grateful was the hour 
when they could make public the following report : 

"The subscriber would here gratefully acknowl- 
edge the service so kindly rendered by the many 
friends who assisted him in conducting Mabelle's 
May Day Fair. Her very severe illness at the time 
rendered this valuable aid all the more acceptable 
to a novice in such matters. 

" He would announce that the receipts were 
something above one thousand dollars, and the net 
proceeds were eight hundred. 

"The articles left on hand (which will soon be 
offered for sale at No. 12 Pearl Street), with sundry 
voluntary contributions, will probably increase this 
amount one hundred dollars or more. 

"A portion of the funds has been expended as 
follows: $300 given to the Christian Commission; 
$50 to the Camden Street Hospital, Baltimore; 



3 o8 

Sioo for Mrs. Pomeroy, Columbian Hospital, 
Washington; $15 to assist a soldier here, who has 
served three years without bounty, in procuring a 
'Salem Leg'; $5 to a Salem soldier, who, it is to 
be feared, may not need assistance long, and it is 
hoped that he will not be left with a want unsup- 
plied. The balance, $330, is still in the Salem 
Bank." 

No doubt Mrs. Farmer wrote with a gladder pen 
some months later: — 

"It will be pleasant to you to know that the 
eight hundred dollars collected by my friends for 
the suffering soldiers has been increased until the 
amount is more than twelve hundred above ex- 
penses. The good this has done, the sufferings it 
has relieved, eternity alone will tell. God shall 
have all the glory. The good work is still going 
on in an unfailing stream. Everybody has been 
good to me." 

The intenseness of her interest in the May Day 
Fair resulted in a prostration, which, but for her 
miraculous endurance, would have been fatal. 
Yet, as Dr. MacFarland came to see her from Bos- 
ton, he said in his quiet way: "I find your face as 
calm as ever and your heart as hopeful. You are 
a wonderful woman, Mrs. Farmer." As soon as 
she rallied, she penciled her increasing joys to her 
friends. To Miss Susan Hammond, of Eliot, she 
wrote : — 

"The first disposal of the proceeds of the Fair 
was to the wounded from the battle of the Wilder- 



309 

ness. A young soldier was carried to the Colum- 
bian College in Washington who was 'too far gone 
to spend any time over,' the surgeon said. The 
faithful Mrs. Pomeroy felt that his life might be 
regained. All night she stood over him, forcing 
open at times the cold white lips and moistening 
them with the brandy we had sent her from Salem. 
The next day the powers of life began to rally, and 
the dear boy was soon pronounced out of danger. 
As his strength returned, he began to realize what 
would have been his condition if he had died. His 
resolve was at once made. The life that God had 
spared should be devoted to him. He asked Mrs. 
Pomeroy to kneel by his bed, and help him make the 
consecration for time and eternity. In his far-off 
home a patient, loving mother waited for tidings of 
the safety of her only son. When the joyful news 
reached her of his welfare, it was to carry a double 
joy; for she could say, 'My son who was lost has 
been found.' His greatest desire to see his mother 
was to tell her what God had done for his soul. 
As soon as he recovered his health he returned to 
the regiment ; and the colonel soon after wrote 
Mrs. Pomeroy that he did not leave his religion in 
the hospital, but worked like a veteran of the cross. 
A few weeks later he was out on picket, and a 
bullet from a rebel musket sent him to his rest and 
reward. The last time he was seen alive it was 
with his Bible before him; and we cannot doubt 
that he heard from the Saviour's lips, 'Come, ye 
blessed,' as he entered the New Jerusalem. His 



10 



dear mother waits for him no longer; but. where 
the sounds of war will never be heard, he is watch- 
ing for her. 

"Go on, then, dear Susan, in your labors of love; 
and, if you are ever tempted to weary in well-doing, 
think of the s;ood you have done, and take courage. 
"What I say to you I say to your dear mother and 
sister. God bless you and reward you for what you 
have done for my soldiers. I received some beauti- 
ful things from dear Mrs. Israel Kimball, of Ports- 
mouth. She has done a great deal to help me." 

In one of her letters printed in the local sheets 
she says: "The money so generously placed at my 
disposal by the contributors, patrons, and friends of 
the May Day Fair in 1864. for the relief of our 
sick and wounded soldiers, has been expended for 
their comfort, returning an interest far exceeding 
that of simple or compound in the gratitude of 
those for whom too much cannot be done; and not 
a dollar has been spent that I have not heard from, 
giving all interested the pleasing satisfaction of 
knowing how much suffering has been relieved and 
what good it has accomplished. This, with the 
knowledge of the work there is yet to be done be- 
fore we shall be a happy and united people, is an 
encouragement for continued efforts." 

Xot often have we found among her papers any 
expression of ire. but the following seems to be 
that somewhat peculiar and perhaps indefinable 
state which we express as righteous indignation : — 

"Your heart would ache if I should tell you of 



3ii 

cases that have been brought to my notice. I have 
time to mention but one. In a town not far from 
Salem is a soldier of the Massachusetts 23d. 
He enlisted a strong man, served faithfully his 
term of three years, and has come home to die. 
His sole support since the 1st of October has been 
the scanty pittance of eight dollars a month, and 
with this he must provide for his wife and child. 
His rent is three dollars, leaving him only five dol- 
lars for fuel and bread. He has struggled on with 
that through the winter; and now he is needing 
medicine and more nourishing food, and finds it 
impossible to keep free from debt. I wrote to 
three ministers of the town concerning his needs. 
No response. A friend then went for me to one 
whom she thought would be willing to render assist- 
ance, and was told by the woman that the poor- 
house was probably the place for him, as that was 
free. My indignation surpasses all bounds. What 
can she say when the Master affirms, 'I was hungry, 
and ye gave me no meat ' ? We should be willing 
to give up our homes to the returned soldiers, and 
go to the poorhouse ourselves, if need be." After 
the May Day Fair Mabelle held two smaller ones; 
and for one of them she wrote what was termed 

A PRACTICAL RHYME. 

READ AT THE SOLDIERS' FAIR, IN EDEN HOME, 
AUG. 25, 1864. 

We've been counting the months, and find them scarce four, 
Since a plea for the soldiers was left at your door j 
And now we are coming to ask of you more. 



312 

But, in paying the debt which so justly we owe, 
The heart with the hand should most willingly go ; 
For the adage is true, "We shall reap what we sow." 

Where are the brave men for whom we sought aid, 

On whose shoulders the weight of our burdens was laid ? 

And for whom, can you tell me, was their sacrifice made ? 

Those brave hearts are sleeping, high pulses are still, 
Which the bugle's clear blast had the power to thrill. 
Now the place where they stood another must fill ! 

Go ask the warm sun why he veils his bright eye, 
And the soft cooling rain falls down from the sky, 
Where the death-wounded soldiers in agony lie ! 

Shall the answer we hear shame the part which we bear? 

Or we for our heroes less tenderly care, 

Since it is for our sake they are now dying there ? 

Each drop of the rain gems their brows with a tear. 

It is pity's sweet way to comfort them here, 

And it tells the poor men that God's angels are near. 

Here's a lesson of love which the full clouds would teach, 
And the moral our conscience most gladly will reach, 
When we give to our deeds such expression of speech. 

Now the work which these martyrs have left us to do 
Is to guard the dear flag with its " red, white, and blue," 
As the symbol of all that is holy and true. 

To comfort the weary by word and with deed, 
To bind up the wounds which in agony bleed, 
And be true to ourselves and to them in their need. 

Then give of your substance, and increase it fourfold, 
And thus keep what our heroes now give you to hold, 
Or it may be your fate to be left out in the cold." 

The Voice that had been the inspiration and zeal 
of these months and even years of labors spake 



313 

again. It said, "Come into the desert place, and 
rest awhile." As a prelude to this rest, we find in 
a page to one who had sympathy with her zeal : 
"They tell me I must die if I do not rest. Pray 
for me and mine, who need so much strength. 
Live for Christ. Cling to the cross. He died for 
me." After these ejaculations, traced with fingers 
that scarcely controlled her pencil, she added: "I 
wish I could tell you about heaven. I have seen it 
with my mortal eyes. Glorious, glorious ! Christ 
is all in all. Keep saying, 'Happy Mabelle.' I 
give you a sweet text, 'If ye loved me, ye would 
rejoice.' I dare not tell you how long I am in 
writing this." 

And again to a minister she said: — 
" How I wish you could bend your ear to catch 
my whispered words ! I would tell you what a 
sweet season I had on Lord's Day pleading with 
God for you, that he would make this suffering life 
of mine a great blessing to you and the dear people 
at Mendon to whom you minister in holy things. 
No, I have not felt yet that I am going home, 
though they tell me that I shall die if I do not lay 
down my work and cease to think. When I do go 
home, Gerrish will send for you. I want you to 
hear me sing, as I go over the river, fc O Death, 
where is thy sting?' Patience, my tired heart. 
Not yet can thy beatings cease. In God's own 
time. Can you see Jesus holding me as he did the 
beloved John? 1 am happy, quiet, and peaceful. 
I forget the agony, and dwell only on this. Tell 



314 

dear Miss Eldredge all I tell you. I love her ten- 
derly. Her arms uphold me. Bless her, sweet 
Christ. Everybody is remembered, all their love 
and kindness. I am at peace with all the world, 
loving everybody." 

From the letter in which she tells the story of 
her laying down her direct labors and most unself- 
ish devotion to the army boys, we make the follow- 
ing extracts : — 

u You know the holy, blessed work that has 
entered into my very being, that has engrossed my 
almost every thought during the last four years? 
God is now about to take it out of my hands. It 
was sweet to 'Do this in remembrance of me." I 
trust that I shall find peace as I lay down a burden 
too great for my failing strength. I have carried 
all my care to God, and know that his will is soon 
to be revealed. He has answered my prayer and 
raised up friends for the poor soldiers who will do 
more and better than it would have been in my 
power to do, even with health and strength. He 
gave me the work in the past, and now I give it back 
as cheerfully as I accepted it. I believe he has a 
great deal more for me to do here, but I am con- 
vinced that now my first work is to get well. The 
constant thinking is sapping my blood, exhausting 
my strength, paralyzing every effort of those who 
are making such strenuous exertions to save my life. 
My doctors say it is simply impossible to arrest 
this inflammatory excitement while the brain, so 
overtaxed, is constantly supplying it with nourish- 



315 

ment at its own expense; and the way I am to 
begin to rest is to pass over to the Army and Navy 
Union the amount on the bank book collected for 
the soldiers, and then be only a looker-on outside 
the ranks, but praying still to the God of battles. 
I have been trying for three weeks to complete a 
letter to Captain Whipple, and to-day my Moses 
added the last words I have to dictate. It seems 
like making my will" 

The letter to Captain Whipple was printed, and 
the editor of the Salem Gazette prefixed a very 
kindly and truthful note : — 

"The following letter, from the trembling hand 
of an invalid, whose signature is well known to our 
Salem readers, displays a spirit of patriotism as 
earnest and unblenching on a sick-bed as ever ani- 
mated a soldier on the field of battle: — 

"Captain George M. Whipple, Treasurer Naum- 
keag Army and Navy Union : 

"Dear Sir, — The action of the Naumkeag Army 
and Navy Union has found its way to a bed of 
suffering, thrilling my weary heart with a joy to 
which it has long been a stranger; and a paean of 
thanksgiving and praise is going up to i our 
Father ' that the dear people of Salem have been 
'weighed in the balance, and not found wanting.' 
It has proved to me, what I have so long felt to 
be true, that their seeming neglect of a well-known 
duty was from a fc want of thought, not feeling.' 

" How nobly they have responded to each and 



3i6 

every call made upon them during our country's 
struggles, counting not even their own lives dear! 
But the absence of so many of our truest and best 
adds a glorious lustre to all the records of the tri- 
umphant past, and will shine yet brighter through 
all coming time, like the starry gems on high, 
which ever seem hymning forth the angels' song 
which heralded a Saviour's birth, 'Peace on earth, 
good will to man! ' 

"That I have been unable to offer the service of 
a strong risfht arm and feet that never wearied in 
well-doing in a crisis like this would be a lifelong- 
sorrow, for which time could offer no balm, only 
that my Father has done it; and, while I could so 
plainly hear his voice saying, 'Be still, and know 
that I am God,' I have accepted the position to 
which he has assigned me with a thankful heart 
that he requires nothing of us from which he with- 
holds the power of doing. 

"If waiting instead of serving will best promote 
his glory and the good of others, every wish for 
a more active service is silenced, leaving a heart 
so full of grateful love to God for the little he 
has placed within the reach of my willing though 
feeble hands that there is no room for a murmuring 
thought or word. 

"Through the generosity of those who have so 
liberally responded to my every petition for help in 
behalf of our suffering soldiers, I am able to enclose 
a check for two hundred dollars from the 'May 
Day Fund,' to be expended by your 'Relief Com- 



3^7 

mittee ' for the comfort of those for whom it was 
collected. If my unworthy life is spared, I hope 
to be able to add to this sum from time to time, 
and would in the present case increase the amount, 
only that I have promised help in several instances, 
and cannot as yet tell how much may be needed, 
and would not wish to embarrass the action of your 
'.Relief Committee' by any such contingencies or 
restrictions, preferring rather to leave it to the 
Master (whose servants they are) to guide and 
direct. 

"But you will, I trust, pardon my seeming pre- 
sumption if I say that your organization does not 
seem complete until woman is connected with your 
visiting committee, and thus identified with its in- 
terests. Her ready sympathy and quick intuition 
will find a way to the homes and hearts of women, 
where man (it may be), with his clearer and cooler 
judgment, might never find access to wants which 
would be borne in silence or breathed alone into 
the ear of the Great Listener above. 

"We may never expect to find again a Michael 
Carlton; for, when God requires any special and 
peculiar work of his children, he fits them pre-emi- 
nently for it. In good Mr. Carlton (as in dear 
Father Cleveland of Boston, who is still going 
about doing good, though now in the ninety -fifth 
year of his age) were and are qualities so harmoni- 
ously blended that the help of even woman would 
seem to mar the beauty of their life-work. 

"When the Master's voice was heard, 'Come up 



3i8 

higher,' it was as joyfully answered by the ever- 
faithful Mr. Carlton, as it always had been through 
a long and useful life; and he entered upon his 
rest and reward. That his mantle may fall upon 
some one in our midst should be our unceasing 
prayer, while we earnestly endeavor to profit by ex- 
amples so rare and worthy of imitation. 

"I well remember the remark of a soldier's 
mother in the early part of the war, who, in speak- 
ing of one who is now in the many-mansioned 
home, said, 'I can't help thinking every time she 
comes to see us how much she looks like an angel.' 
('You know,' she added, 'how differently we feel 
about talking to a woman from what we do to a 
man, if they are just as good.') 

"And who that ever looked upon the pure, sweet 
face of the dear sainted one, who vanished all too 
soon from our mortal vision, will wonder that she 
seemed to be clothed with the beauty and majesty 
of the angels as she went forth on her errands of 
love and mercy? 

" Fitted by nature to honor and adorn any sphere 
of life, all the endowments that could add grace or 
beauty to her presence were bestowed with lavish 
hand ; yet neither nature nor art had power to excel 
or dim the lustre of the priceless gem within. 

"Pure as was the outward temple, the shrine on 
which were laid all the holy attributes of woman 
was to those who knew and loved her best without 
spot or blemish. 

"Years ago one said of her in my presence, 



'She would grace a throne'; yet, in all her sweet 
ministrations of love to the poor and afflicted, her 
divine nature so triumphed that she seemed as truly 
in her place while visiting the abodes of poverty as 
she would have been in a palace. 

"When the clarion notes of war sounded 'to 
arms,' no heart responded more quickly than hers; 
and all that woman could offer was laid upon the 
altar of our country. From that hour she never 
wearied in well-doing until she went up the star- 
gemmed way, to be welcomed by her precious and 
venerated father, whose dear 'children rise up and 
call him blessed.' Even while her spirit was 
pluming its wings for an upward flight, the sick 
and suffering were not forgotten. One of her last 
requests was to 'send flowers ' to one whose heart 
often found in their presence a solace for pain; who 
always loved them for their own sweet sakes, and 
now all the more for hers; who still sees in the 
gifts of friends, which so often take from a chamber 
of suffering all its gloom, the sweet hope that the 
dear angel one has whispered to their hearts, 'Send 
flowers,' in answer to the oft-repeated question of 
friend and stranger, 'What can I do for her? ' 

"Thus all the memories of a life which can 
never die are sacredly treasured, twining around 
life's weary cross the sweet blossoms of patience 
and hope. 

" I trust you will pardon me if it seems invidi- 
ous to allude thus to one, when so many in our own 
city have consecrated their all to the same high and 



320 

holy purpose. The remark of the soldier's mother 
bears so directly upon my suggestion for appealing 
to the noble-hearted women of Salem for help in 
your labors of love that I could not refrain from 
doing it, nor from paying this just and heart-felt 
tribute to the value of the seed the sainted one has 
sown, which will yet spring up in harvests of bless- 
ings for other hands to reap. If she could speak 
to us to-day, her language would be, — 

Toil on, faint not, keep watch and pray ; 

Be wise the erring soul to win ; 
Go forth into the world's highway, 

And gently lead the sufferers in. 

"May the blessing of him who was rich, but be- 
came poor for our sakes, rest upon you and your 
co-laborers in a work so beneficent and glorious, is 
the prayer of one who is still in the furnace of suf- 
fering, but who, if there is any service that heart or 
brain can render in the cause to which you and your 
associate members have proved your loyal devotion, 
only waits for a knowledge of it. 

"Yours respectfully, 

"Mabelle." 



XXV. 



THE MAY BASKET. 



THE direct work for the soldiers laid down, it 
was a holy joy to her to gather up her let- 
ters, and fold them carefully away as treasures of 
more worth than a mint. Shall we not enter into 
her joy, now that her departure has given us the 
freedom to select from these papers that which must 
by its reflex power cause her own loving kindness 
to be more clearly defined? 

The letters of Mrs. Pomeroy to Mabelle bring us 
into fellowship with that woman of grace of life 
and speech, and reveal her appreciation of the 
efforts of her fellow-helper: — 

"How do I long to sit at your bedside, dear 
Mabelle, and tell you much that I have passed 
through which only my blessed Saviour knows! " 

And, when her divine skill in hospital work gave 
many friends, Mrs. Pomeroy wrote: — 

" Honors with me have brought many sorrows. I 
have often thought of Joseph in Egypt; but God 
was with him, and brought him out of them all. I 
should sink but for the Unseen Arm. We are ex- 
pecting more wounded, and my old cottons or hand- 
kerchiefs will be much needed. For the postage- 



322 

stamps, dear Mabelle, the soldiers thank you 
much; and I thank you for the pin-flats you gave 
me when I was at your house." 

One may be easily forgiven if the tears fall as 
one reads the following acknowledgment of a hos- 
pital box, written by Mrs. Pomeroy: — 

"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — I shall never be able to 
let you know the half that your kindness has done 
for my poor, sick, wounded boys, as I can now give 
them many things the Government does not provide. 
When my very sick boys — sick unto death — have 
looked up so gratefully as I held the cup of tea 
sweetened with the white sugar your dear hands 
provided, I have wished you could look as their 
faces beam with gratitude. The silent tear is seen, 
but words are choked in their utterance. Dear 
Mabelle, all my beds have been filled, and I 
thought that four must die; but God in his great 
mercy has heard prayer, and I feel encouraged that 
they may once more see their friends. One has 
found the Saviour, and three are thoughtful; and 
my earnest prayer is that I may be useful, working 
for Him who has done so much for me. 

"Yes, since writing the above, I have closed the 
bright eyes of my sickest boy, said the last word ; 
and now the vacant cot is made ready for another 
wounded lad. The dead child was not only a 
scholar, but a Christian. He called me Mother all 
the time I was with him, told me often of his own 
mother in heaven. He said her prayers saved him, 
and he wanted to go to her and to Jesus. Just be- 



323 

fore he died he put his arms about my neck, and 
said, 'Mother, dear mother, how I love you! and I 
know that God will bless you for being so kind to 
us boys. 1 

"Then our surgeon had a dear little boy die; and 
I was in demand for four days, doing all I could for 
the stricken parents and looking after my large 
family of soldier boys. The four very sick ones, 
by the providence of God, have been able to go 
home. The postage-stamps are most acceptable, as 
the soldiers beg for one quite often. I feel hur- 
ried, as an order is here to make ready for a large 
number of sick boys." 

From one more letter we get a glimpse of the 
dear woman's hospital days and various work: — 

"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — On Sunday we all fol- 
lowed in procession from the hospital to the chapel 
the wife of one of the surgeons. She was only 
twenty-four; but, though young, she was rich in 
Christ. Her dear husband is left with a babe 
eighteen months old. We all do what we can, 
but he is inconsolable. My large family of soldier 
boys is doing well." 

As an appendix to the motherly epistles of Mrs. 
Pomeroy is one signed by U A11 Mrs. Pomeroy's 
Boys." It was to Mabelle a sunbeam, and lighted 
her eyes with the beauty of the Lord : — 

"Columbian Hospital, Nov. 22, 1864. 

"Mrs. Farmer: Dear Madam, — As I am one of 
those fortunate ones to be in Mrs. Pomeroy's Ward 



324 

in this Hospital, and so enjoying those articles you 
sent to the soldiers, I cannot help writing you a 
few lines to let you know how thankful we all are. 
We were all very much surprised on Saturday even- 
ing by our dear Nurse, Mrs. Pomeroy, coming into 
the Ward and telling us a box had come for us. 
We were all delighted, and more so when she told 
us that tea and sugar were in it ; for a good cup of 
tea is very acceptable to sick soldiers. May God 
bless you and preserve you for your kindness to us ! 
The boys all send kind regards. Hoping we shall 
soon see this cruel war over, we remain your soldier 
friends. 

"John H. Forey, Co. K, ioth N.Y. Art'y. 

"John Haverstick, Co. I, 12th N.J. V. 

" John Martin, Co. A, 5U1 Mich. 

"Serg't John Post, Co. I, 152a! N.Y. S. V. 

" Benj. F. Adams, Co. 1st Maine. 

" Harris Jacobs, Co. D, 69th N.Y. V. 

" Gilbert Chapman, Co. K, 10th N.Y. Art'y. 

"John H. Boardman, Co. C, 61 st N.Y. V. 

"Frederic Brinkley (rebel), Co. I, 41st Va. 

" Samuel Coburn, Co. H, 7th Md. 

"Wm, Butterwick, Co. F, 22d Vt. R. Corps. 

"Otis Kimball, Co. A, 1st Mich. Sharpshooters. 
" All Mrs. Pomeroy's Boys." 

The venerable Father Cleveland, as he read the 
foregoing letters, wrote the following tribute to 
Mrs. Pomeroy's worth and work: — 

"Dear saint cannot but possess the spirit of 
her divine Master while watching over so many 
sick patients from the battlefields, where they 
readily and at every hazard jeopardized their lives 



325 

in behalf of their dear country against the purposes 
of the Prince of Powers of the Air in his attempts 
to destroy the Union. Charles Cleveland." 

It will be remembered that of all the war pho- 
tographs none was more attractive than " Some of 
the Boys who Saved us," a group of six young men. 
all disabled in battles and each leaning upon his 
crutch. One of these noble fellows wrote to Mrs. 
Farmer the golden message : — 

"When I lie suffering untold pain, I had rather 
be envied than pitied. I do not need sympathy. I 
want my friends to speak cheerfully. 

" I hardly know what else to say to you. I re- 
ceived not only your letter, but a soldier's quilt and 
a memorial of Major A. B. Soule. These I prize. 
If I had never been disabled in battle, I should 
never have known how many were friends to me. 
I felt my own nothingness as I read the life of 
Major Soule. The poetry of the letter I received 
is beautiful. You write just what you wish to. 
Ask Mr. Parmer to send us two dozen of the paper 
in which it was published." 

On the margin of a letter Mabelle has written, 
"A letter by one of my soldiers in response to a 
quilt made by little girls, and addressed to them " : 

"So you want a real soldier's letter? Well, you 
shall have one, and that from a soldier who has 
been in the service of his country for three years, 
— one that has been in twenty-one engagements, 
been wounded five times, one that has carried the 
stars and stripes over fifteen hundred miles in the 



320 

States of Louisiana, Texas, and Mississippi; and, 
if such a letter can be called a soldier 's letter, you 
shall have one. 

"Now, my little friends, you wish to do all you 
can for soldiers. That is right, for they deserve it. 
In this Home you will find faces that have been 
bronzed by Southern suns and blackened by the 
smoke of battles. Now they are pale. They have 
been bleached in the Hospital, some with loss of 
limb, others with loss of health, and many have no 
home to go to. Some are languishing towards the 
grave. Many have come back only to die. It is a 
sad sight to see these brave fellows in this Home. 
And now about the quilt? I have got it. It will 
keep me warm until my wounds get well. I thank 
you one and all for it. I am only a rough soldier, 
so do not criticise my letter too closely. Give my 
love to Aunt Mabelle. H. H. Swallow, Dis- 
charged Soldiers' Home.'' 

We find one of Mrs. Farmer's own letters refer- 
ring to another quilt for soldiers : — 

" A dear little girl, only five years old, whose 
name is Lillie, has sent four beautiful squares of 
patchwork; but it was a long time before I could 
see whether it was sewed neatly or not, the tears 
came too fast. I had not forgotten dear little 
fingers that tried so hard to sew, and could still 
hear our angel Lillie asking for a 'needle, just 
like auntie's.' I must not weep for //^r now, while 
so many little girls have given up their fathers to 
die for you and me, but must work; and this I am 



327 

ready to do, just where the Master sees I am most 
needed." 

Another of her boys wrote to her about the appre- 
ciative hearts of the soldiers: — 

"Yes, the smallest article given towards the 
comfort of the soldiers is prized much more than 
many suppose it is. Would it not repay you to 
know that during the dreary winter some brave and 
true soul was kept comfortable? Could you only 
see how a gift is appreciated! I know something 
about it. I served in the army until the battle of 
Cold Harbor. There I received a severe wound, 
having had a narrow escape from death. While I 
lay in the Hospital, I saw many a pair of stockings 
and shirts given away; and, if you could have seen 
how glad the boys were, you would have felt paid 
for your effort with compound interest." 

A wounded soldier at Hampton Hospital, Va., 
wrote Oct. 7, 1864: — 

"I received a comfort bag which you had the 
kindness to arrange and send. I perused your let- 
ter with emotions of thankfulness. I was wounded 
in the battle of Chapin's Farm, south of the James 
River. The ball passed through my left lung. I 
feel quite unable to sit up. I trust I belong to the 
Army of the Lord, too ; and with these hasty words 
I bid you a brotherly good-by." 

A soldier's widow, only twenty years of age, 
writes from Ohio : — - 

" My brother was in the army more than a year, 
when he failed in health, and was discharged. A 



3 2S 

brother went when the first call came for seventy- 
five thousand. He was absent two years, then he 
was ill with camp fever. This week he has re- 
enlisted. Another brother has gone with him. A 
year ago my husband went. His regiment en- 
camped at Vicksburg, near a swamp; and he fell a 
victim to malaria. If you are a wife, beloved and 
idolized, you can realize my grief. It is as fresh 
to-day as at first. The 5th of September, my 
twentieth birthday, my little baby daughter died. 
I am left a widow and childless. How often I 
think of you, lying upon your couch, yet ready to 
alleviate as far as possible the trials of our brave 
boys! I am at present engaged in making a war- 
quilt. In the centre of each block is the date of a 
battle. Father has now entered the army again, 
and is at Wilson's Landing. He is too old for a 
soldier, but he has twice enlisted." 

Another letter from one who had a table at the 
May Day Fair tells of a soldier brother dying at 
Portland, Me., aged nineteen years, and saying, as 
he breathed his last: "I did my duty while in the 
regiment, and would have died in New Orleans, had 
I known you were all Christians. Be good. I am 
going home." And then, adds his chronicler, "We 
all kissed him, and wept." Yes, poor thing, thou- 
sands kissed dying lips and wept, while those years 
drifted by. 

Mrs. Farmer's correspondence with the Rev. 
John W. Dadmun was a great consolation. She 
wrote of him: "I know from personal experience 



329 

what his ministrations are to the sick and afflicted. 
He came to me in life's darkest hour, and the 
memory of the suffering through which I passed in 
k Lillie's home' will be forever sanctified by the 
remembrance of his angel visits, which were 
4 neither few nor far between ' ; and I can only pray 
that his sweet and tuneful voice may refresh and 
strengthen the weary soldier, leading him up into a 
clearer light, where visions of the glory yet to be 
revealed may dawn upon his soul, as it has so often 
vibrated over the quivering heart-strings of one who 
has not yet learned to 'suffer and be strong.' ' 

When she learned that this excellent and genial 
servant of God and sweet singer of Israel was to be 
her almoner at Washington, she was filled with a 
divine though silent hallelujah: — 

"Washington, D. C, May 31, 1864. 
"Mrs. Farmer: 

" Dear Sister in Christ, — Doubtless before this 
you have learned that I am in the service of the 
Christian Commission. One week ago last Friday, 
when I called at Brother Demond's office to get my 
credentials before leaving for Washington, he said 
to me, 'Here are some papers from Mrs. M. G. 
Farmer of Salem, who, though an invalid, has man- 
aged to get up a Fair, and has raised the handsome 
sum of three hundred dollars for the Christian Com- 
mission, and wants some one delegate to have it 
who will see that its value is faithfully distributed 
to the sick and wounded soldiers.' I answered, 4 I 



33Q 

am personally acquainted with Mrs. Farmer, and 
shall be most happy to bear her token of affection 
to our brave and suffering men.' Brother Demond 
said, 'This seems to be very providential that one 
she knows should be her almoner.' 

"On arriving here one week ago yesterday, I 
found that all of the sick and wounded were being 
brought from the front to this city, and was in- 
formed by Brother Abbott, the agent here, that my 
coming was very timely and providential, for there 
was a great work to be done in the hospitals. I 
entered upon my duties at once, and such scenes of 
suffering I never witnessed before. For about a 
week they have been coming in by thousands, some 
with a leg amputated, some with a leg and arm 
gone, others with both legs off. One poor fellow 
that I have visited has twenty-four bullet holes in 
his body. But such patience, and in some — yes, 
many — cases such Christian heroism I never wit- 
nessed before. 

u My work has been, first, to distribute such arti- 
cles of food and clothing as would render their poor 
suffering bodies as comfortable as possible, then 
talk to them of Jesus, the Saviour of sinners. It 
seems to me that God has called me to this particu- 
lar work at this time. All seem willing to listen 
to the gospel of Christ ; and very many are eager to 
have me sing some sweet hymn, then talk and pray 
with them. As an illustration of what we are 
doing here, last Sabbath Rev. Brother McDonald 
and myself went into Armory Square Hospital, and 



33* 

commenced holding meetings in the different wards. 
We would first sing a hymn, 'Rest for the weary' 
or 4 There will be no sorrow there,' then one would 
deliver a short address, and the other would pray, 
until we had attended seven services, including one 
funeral and one baptism, the baptism service being 
read by the chaplain, Brother E. M. Jackson, a 
faithful, devoted man of God. All this was done, 
besides talking personally with a great number of 
the men. Only think of sixteen hundred men in 
one hospital, two-thirds of whom will die, in all 
probability, within thirty days! The mortality 
here is doubtless greater than in the other hospi- 
tals, as this is nearer the landing, where the most 
severely wounded are brought. It seems to me the 
Christian Commission is the noblest institution of 
the land in this national crisis. Here Christian 
ministers of all denominations meet on a level; and 
the only question of interest is, How and where 
can we do the most for suffering humanity? Like 
Jesus, we break bread to the multitude, and then 
instruct them in the way to heaven. 

"I will assure you that the avails of your Fair are 
faithfully and prudently distributed to the suffering 
heroes of our country. In all probability I shall 
go to the front the first of next week, as there must 
be a great deal of fighting done near Richmond. I 
will write you again soon, and let you know what I 
am doing. My time is so fully taken up that I can 
find but little leisure for writing. I hope you are 
enjoying great peace through our Lord Jesus Christ. 



332 

"I must here add one very interesting fact. 
From personal observation and after conversing 
with other delegates here in the hospitals, we are 
satisfied that two-thirds, if not three-fourths, of the 
sick and wounded are indulging a good hope in 
Christ. There was a great revival in the army be- 
fore they moved ' on to Richmond.' Many a man 
has gone up to heaven from the battlefield that 
might never have reached there but for this war. 

"Give my best regards to Brother Farmer and all 
my friends. 

"Yours in the love of Christ. 

"J. W. Dadmun." 

A wounded officer in Iowa, who received a box 
from Eden Home, wrote: "The soldiers cannot but 
love such people as you. They will never forget 
you." And from Fort Lyon came a long and gra- 
cious missive from another wounded officer, Cap- 
tain E. C. Dickinson: — 

"Permit me and my comrades who are sharers of 
your kind-hearted gifts to sincerely thank you. 
May the gratitude of the soldier repay you and the 
friends for such kindnesses! Everything came in 
good order. I am rewarded for many days of suffer- 
ing and want during the past three years by tender 
and encouraging words from loyal ones at home and 
the inspiring letters from strangers, known only by 
deed and name. It is a soldier's inspiration to 
know that he is remembered. By your kindness I 
shall be able to distribute crackers and jelly to the 



sick ones now in the Hospital, and the pin-flats and 
the reading matter. The government coffee does 
not agree with me; and you may well imagine how 
highly I prize the tea in the box, so carefully put 
in "separate drawings.' The handy little teapot is 
a luxury, and I have real pleasure in drinking my 
tea from a real cup and saucer." 

And one who signed herself as " Willie's Mother" 
wrote to her because of her love to stranger- 
mothers in their griefs : — 

"He and his younger brother enlisted together, 
and have been in two battles besides skirmishes. 
They were at Donelson and Pittsburg. Willie con- 
tracted fever, and his father went to him at the 
hospital at Memphis. The meeting of father and 
son was very touching. The dying boy put his 
arms about his father's neck, and said, 'I knew 
you would come, and you won't leave me? ' The 
next day the surgeon thought he might be taken 
home, as he desired it so much. They reached 
Cairo, and could get no farther. That night he 
died, saying: 'I am not afraid. I love Jesus.' 
These words we put upon his gravestone. I write 
all this because you are so interested." 

Another donation from the May Day Fair was a 
library to Jefferson Barracks. Several of her most 
interesting letters bear the date of that hospital. 

"Jefferson Barracks, July 20, 1864. 
"M. G. Farmer: 

"Dear Friend, — I take great pleasure in acknowl- 
edging the receipt of a box of books for this Hos- 



334 

pital from you, which arrived on the 16th inst. 
On opening the same, I was highly delighted with 
the selection; for my anticipations were to receive 
a goodly number and quality, but was happily dis- 
appointed on the perusal of the titles and quantity 
of volumes. 

"Before delivering them to the library, a com- 
plete catalogue was made, and everything arranged 
that they might be immediately placed in the hands 
of the soldiers; and, if those books are not duly 
appreciated by them, I am in fault of my calcula- 
tions of the noble defenders of our country. I am 
aware how thankful I should have been, at the time 
I was in the same situation that the eleven hundred 
inmates of this Hospital now are, to have had the 
privilege to choose a book from so choice a selec- 
tion; and, believe me, they will do your efforts 
justice. After the box was opened, many gathered 
around it, and, on being told who they were for 
and where from, wondered that any one could make 
so good a selection without knowing exactly the 
condition of the library and the wants of the Hos- 
pital ; and many asked me if some one here did not 
suggest most of the books. The scrap-books espe- 
cially excited interest, and the works of Dickens 
are just what are needed. That vein of humor 
which prevails in all his writings will, I believe, 
have a beneficial influence. Could you have heard 
and seen the various expressions of joy and surprise 
that fell from their lips and covered their counte- 
nances while glancing through them, would have 



335 

doubly repaid you and all who were instrumental in 
that May Day Fair which has so kindly blessed us. 

"I do not think that one book which the box con- 
tained was ever before in the library, and now they 
give the shelves such a variety that all tastes can 
find congenial reading. The newspapers and pin- 
flats I distributed among 'the boys'; and all were 
greedily taken, and, when told they were sent to 
them all the way from Massachusetts, looked more 
than pleased, fairly delighted. 

"The picture of Father Cleveland hangs on the 
library wall, where those who read will all see and 
learn of his good deeds and the interest which he 
takes in the cause for which they now suffer. 

"Please accept our thanks and kindest regards 
for your welfare. 'God bless the ladies of Massa- 
chusetts ' is the prayer of the soldiers of this 
Hospital. 

"Yours respectfully, 

"C. H. Talmage." 

Another letter contained a very good-sense 
criticism : — 

"You may well imagine the joy of Charley and 
me in opening the box of books. They supplied 
our need. Sunday-school library gifts have scarcely 
met the intellectual want of the mass of our soldiers, 
however good they are in themselves. Your selec- 
tion calls out our thanks for happy hours with 
Dickens, Shakspere, Mrs. Stowe, et als" 

A few months later a soldier wrote again of this 
library: — 



336 

" I made an errand to the scene of my former 
work and the May Day Fair's bounty, and inquired 
after the books. The incessant changing of the 
patients of the Hospital brings the volumes into 
constant requisition, being new to every fresh ar- 
rival. They are kept right well. The paper cover- 
ings preserve them from soil nicely. Not an army 
hospital, surely not one at the West, has so large 
and choice a selection of reading. All who enjoy 
the books know who is to be thanked, — an evidence 
of which yuu occasionally have through the chap- 
lain's daughter." 

When Mrs. Farmer asked her boys the exact re- 
lation of the life to God, several honest responses 
came to her: — 

"Your words, Mrs. Farmer, revolve yet in my 
mind. Have I 'enlisted under the banner of the 
Prince of Peace? No, though it is not because I 
lacked moral training; for, if I had followed mater- 
nal wishes, my course would have been different. 
But I have needed conviction as to the actual way 
of salvation. Never desiring to evade the point, I 
am always ready to listen." 

An earnest spirit dated a letter from Deep Bot- 
tom, Va. : — 

" I had lead of the regular soldiers' prayer-meet- 
ing, and I read that portion of your letter request- 
ing them to come unto Christ and to come now. 
Then I read them other portions of the letter. I 
met the colonel, and gave him your letter to read, 
and had a talk with him about Christ. I tried to 



337 

explain religious life as well as I could. I have 
prayed earnestly for our colonel. When he re- 
turned your letter, he said, 'Give my compliments 
to Mrs. Farmer, and tell her I am thankful for the 
interest she shows in the welfare of the soldier.'" 

Of Mrs. Farmer's labors at this date, a journal- 
ist said: — 

. "Many have heard of a May Day Fair held by 
4 Mabelle, ' a sick lady of the witchcraft city, whose 
nom de plume is well known to the readers of poetry 
in our vicinity. She is the wife of a well-known 
electrician and inventor, and a lovely Christian 
woman, gifted mentally and spiritually; and, when 
I think of her sweet face, with the speaking- eye 
and pleasant smile, as she has looked up at me from 
the pillow where the dear head has rested so pa- 
tiently for many long and weary months of intense 
suffering, I would fain add, gifted physically, too." 

Another, whose signature was Paraclete, wrote : — 

"I cannot but admire and love a character so 
patient, generous, and brave. She highly honors 
the religion of the Master by showing not only 
how it can support the soul in trial, but also how it 
can preserve in the heart a tender, loving, active 
sympathy for others, amid sufferings the natural 
tendency of which must be to centre all pity upon 
self." 

Another said of her: — 

"I can never forget the last time I saw her: it 
was the day of the Fair, and she was on that bed 
of pain, and yet dressing a doll. How sick she 



338 

looked! I must see her again, to have once more 
the old and real look." 

Mrs. Farmer called some of her letters balance 
wheels. Her friends would send literally "reproof, 
counsel, and instruction." Her dear Mrs. Mason 
wrote one day : — 

"My dear Friend, — You are not able to meet the 
constant demands on your energies. Are you sure 
you ought to exert yourself as you do? For me, I 
just do nothing. I feel as though my present work 
is to get well, if I can, for my husband's sake and 
my child's, if not for my own. It would kill me to 
attempt the half you are doing." 

Yet this gifted woman was among the very first 
to send to her when the Fair was over : — 

wt I wish to congratulate you on the success of the 
Fair. It is indeed a worthy offering which you 
have laid on the altar of our beloved country. God 
grant that the healing which you have poured into 
so many poor wasted frames may flow back in 
abundance into your own pain-wearied limbs, so 
that the life you have given others may be quick- 
ened fourfold in yourself." 

Another sent the following bit of terseness : — 

"I am thankful for your interest in the soldiers; 
but I do not want you and Mother Dix to kill your- 
selves, for you both owe something to yourselves." 

The writer, however, very wisely added a chapter 
of family patriotism which indicated that she was 
of the very same blood : — 

" I have had four brothers who have worn their 



339 

country's blue, and one pulseless heart lies in his 
blue uniform in the old graveyard; one is at home, 
having seen no well day since his time expired; 
one is in the V. R. C. at Johnson's Island, having 
served two years, and is not eighteen years old till 
next June; the other is at Pensacola, in the Maine 
cavalry. So your works come near my heart." 

These are the type of letters which filled up her 
correspondence at this date; and, though she laid 
down the direct and absorbing labors in behalf of 
the soldiers, yet her interest in them never ceased 
to find expression in her written pages as long as 
she lived, and to her latest year they knew her to 
be the true helper in the days of their pinch and 
hardship. "Not a week passes," she once said, 
"that I do not hear some soldier say, "Come over 
and help me.' This very day a soldier sat by my 
bedside, who is almost persuaded to be Christly. 
For more than a year he has not entered the sanctu- 
ary for the want of suitable clothing. He told me 
to-day with a choked voice, 'I should like to go to 
meeting and to Sunday-school ; but you know, Aunt 
Mabelle, 'tis money that makes the man in this 
world, and I cannot go as I am.' Dear, precious 
friend, do you wonder I wish to carry the soldiers 
over the direful places?" 

A few years after the war, and when she was 
able to travel again, Mr. Bowen, the founder of the 
Gettysburg Orphanage, called upon her in Phila- 
delphia, and she told out to a friend her fresh 
impulse of love for the soldiers' children : — 



340 

* 4 And now, dear, precious Mrs. S., I cannot 
close without telling you something of the Home 
for Soldiers' Orphans, for which dear Mrs. Crockett 
collected eighty dollars. It is at Gettysburg, and 
has now more than a hundred children from ten 
States of the Union. Dr. Bowen, the saintly man 
who was the means of founding it, came to see me 
three times while I was in Philadelphia, and would 
that I could tell you all he said. You will re- 
member the soldier who was found dead on the battle- 
field with a picture of three little children in his 
hand, his sightless eyes fixed on their bright faces? 
And that photograph I have held in my own hand, 
and have seen the blood-stain the dying man left 
upon it. Never did I look upon any picture that 
thrilled as that did. Never was such a sermon heard 
through all my soul as it preached to me. God for- 
give me that I have thought so little of those who 
died for me. God forgive me that I have thought so 
1 ittle of the fatherless and uncared for. The dear chil- 
dren of the Gettysburg Home are to be in it until 
they are sixteen. I have photographs of ten of 
them; and, when you see them, how quickly your 
eyes will fill with tears! Dr. Bowen said several 
children cannot be received because of the present 
insufficiency of means. Now, dear, precious sister, 
I want you to speak in meeting, if you never did be- 
fore; and please tell your good husband he must not 
hinder you. I do not know but he quotes Saint 
Paul, that women should keep silent in the 
churches. If he does, I will soon make a convert 



34i 

of him; and you need not be surprised to hear of 
me out in public in behalf of the soldiers' orphans." 

This chapter has been devoted to letters reveal- 
ing the earnest life in behalf of boys in blue dur- 
ing rebellion days. Can we not also sprinkle into 
this May basket a few flowers, not gathered by sol- 
dier hand, lest we should forget that Mrs. Farmer, 
in her ardor for the soldier, never for one moment 
remitted her love, her thought, her deeds, for 
others who needed her? 

Among the faces which she never saw, yet to 
whom she ministered in these days, by an occa- 
sional book or a remembrance of flowers or a help- 
ful note, was that of Mary R. Staniford, a gentle, 
lifelong sufferer, with the touch of the divine upon 
her forehead. In return for Mrs. Farmer's quiet 
memories of her, Mary sent her one day the follow- 
ing word, which will be like an echo from the 
heaven where she now lives unto those who remem- 
ber her: — 

"Thinking of you, dear Mrs. Farmer, upon that 
sick-bed the other day (and there is hardly a day 
that I do not remember how tired you must be in 
your soldier work), I took up a book and read this 
quaint prayer: ^Lord, send this wearied one a bor- 
rowed bed from Christ!' And if that borrowed bed 
is Christ's love, the pillow his everlasting arms, 
and the covering his righteousness, I thought it 
would be easier to lie upon than any other could be. 
And might not such a bed rest on his promises? " 

Again this choice spirit wrote what a great many 
besides herself have learned : — ■ 



342 

" One of the hardest things for me to remember is 
that waiting, when He folds our hands, is as ac- 
ceptable to our heavenly Father as the active ser- 
vices of other days." 

In another little page she added: — 

"The loss of my voice and my strengthlessness 
are not worth one thought in comparison to one day 
of pain, — such pain as you have been enduring for 
years. 'Doth not He see all my ways and count 
all my steps? ' has made me very glad lately. Per- 
haps it will be a ray of sunshine for you also 
while you read it. (Job xxxi. 4.)" 



XXVI. 



THE CHAPLET. 



U T SEND you a few poems by Mabelle," wrote 
1 her friend Mrs. Stiles, after the departure. 
"And they have been carefully treasured, because 
they speak her sympathy, her love, for us all in our 
sorrows. Our Mabelle was a great comfort to me 
in my season of affliction. Her influence was so 
soothing and elevating. She lifted us higher than 
the atmosphere of earth, into heaven. Her look 
and her voice, full of tenderness for those who were 
passing through deep waters are among the most 
sacred memories of my life. Dear Mabelle! lying 
upon her bed, suffering as the months passed on, 
with her mother love, her sister love for everybody. 
Such a fresh, evergreen memory of the precious 
seasons with her comes to me now that I feel as if 
I had just been to see an angel. Ah, yes! some 
sweet remembrances of earth will never fade away." 
One of the poems alluded to in the foregoing let- 
ter was the tribute of Mabelle to a little child 
gathered into the fold when but nine years of age. 
Of rare spiritual unfolding, she was the jewel of 
the mother's life; and, when the home in which 
she died was surrendered for a newly built one, it 



344 

is not strange that the parents grieved to leave be- 
hind so many tender associations. It was another 
funeral. So Mrs. Farmer sent to Mrs. Stiles the 
verses that have been read over and over for nearly 
thirty years by that still mourning mother: — 

LEAVING LITTLE MARIA'S HOME. 

Good-by, dear home ! with quivering hearts 

We pass from out this door ; 
God help us when we turn away 

And know 'tis ours no more. 

Each room seems like a golden link 

Which keeps our darling near ; 
And, oh ! we sometimes almost feel 

That we shall leave her here. 

The little songs she used to sing, 

In childhood's happy hour, 
Have echoed here from room to room 

With almost magic power. 

The evening prayer from prattling lips 

How often have we heard ! 
And known that God's dear angels came 

To bear on high each word. 

Her little life was one of prayer, 

Though but nine summers long; 
For he who bears the tender lambs 

Had taught her heart his song. 

How strange it seems that he should ope 

To her the gates so wide, 
And we not see the angel host 

That beckoned her inside ! 

We held her by love's strongest cords, 
And felt they would not break ; 



345 

She was the dearest part of life, — 
We lived but for her sake. 

The hours of day passed slowly by 
Till, bounding o'er the stair, 

We heard her steps, and then the light 
Fell softly everywhere. 

How oft she came with dancing feet 

A kiss to catch again ! 
And, if she found dear mother sad, 

Her tears fell like the rain. 

And then would say, " It won't be long 

That I shall be away ; 
For, when the school is out, I'll run, 

And will not stop to play." 

Dear child! how little then she knew 

The dark days yet in store, 
When precious words from infant lips 

Would comfort us no more ! 

The shadow fell ; with untold grief 
We watched her day by day ; 

But from the Saviour's loving call 
She could not turn away. 

Her little heart she gave to him 
When life to her seemed long; 

And can we doubt that she has heard 
The blessed angels' song ? 

Our grief is less since this we know, — 
That they were waiting near, 

To take the precious little hands 
Which we were holding here. 

Whene'er we reach our Father's house. 

How great our joy will be ! 
For, oh, it would be heaven to us 

If we her face could see ! 



34^ 

And all the memories of her life, 

Which cluster round her here, 
Will go with us from this sweet home 

To make our new one dear. 

This one bright link from love's pure chain 

Will bind her to us still ; 
And she will come in angel form 

The aching void to fill. 

To God we consecrate the place 
Where we a home shall make, 

And feel that she, our angel child. 
Will love it for our sake. 

And it shall be, as this is called, 

"Little Maria's Home" ; 
Whene'er we need her presence most, 

Our darling then will come. 

To these dear rooms once more good-by, 
Though hard from them to part. 

We shall not leave our angel child, — 
She lives within our heart. 



Ano her rill of poetic comfort flowing from Mrs. 
Farmer's ceaseless pen had a history revealed in 
the following letter: — 

"Mrs. Soule, whose husband went out with the 
Maine 2 3d, has written me a very touching account of 
her neighbor who has lost her two little girls, — all 
she had. Katie died only two days before Carrie. 
And Mrs. Soule says it was 'heart-rending to see 
the poor, distracted mother try to warm with her 
kisses the cheeks that death had chilled.' She 
called and entreated her to speak just once more: 
'O Katie, darling, open your blessed eyes, and 



347 

tell mother you have only been asleep!' But tears 
and prayers were alike unavailing, as our own 
hearts have told us, when we have bowed in agony 
over all that was mortal of our own earthly idols, 
the prayer in our hearts struggling for utterance 
from lips cold almost as our sheeted dead, — ''Thy 
will be doneS God be praised that by grace we 
have been able to say this with no reservation. 
Mrs. Soule wanted me to write something for the 
mother, hoping it might unseal the fountain of 
tears and quiet her. I have tried to comply, and 
the stanzas have gone to her, laden with humble 
prayer. May God's blessing follow this feeble 
utterance of one who is not a stranger to sorrow! " 

In this poem, watered with the tears of her own 
experience, she sent, as one of her prayers, the 
desire which, if heeded, will clothe many a sorrow 
with the sense of the more than mother-love of God : 

"Walk not in the cold gray shadows 
Which their absence here will cast : 
Make a grave out in the sunlight,. 
Bury there the dear old past." 

Nearer to the universal heart were her soldier 
memorials. She wrote many. When Lieutenant 
Colonel Merritt was brought to his Salem home on 
his bier, and his mother, beautiful with her many 
years, wrapped him in the stars and stripes, saying, 
as she did so, that she had covered him many times 
in his cradle, and why should she not shroud him 
for the tomb, the wealth of Mrs. Farmer's heart 



34§ 

went out for her, and she wrote a memorial hymn, 
which the Rev. Mr. Beaman read at the close of his 
Sunday sermon, and his choir sang it: — 

" He loved the cause for which he died, 

Though home and friends were dear; 
And, when the clarion voice was heard, 

He answered, ' / am here, 
With ready hand to grasp the sword, 

Unsheathed it still shall be : 
Whate'er the sacrifice it costs, 

My country shall be free ! ' ' 

Salem was again draped in weeds : General 
F. W. Lander lay in state in her city hall. The 
populace filed about his casket before the funeral 
dirges were sung. While the city thus paid its 
reverence, Mrs. Farmer in her room — Bethel — 
was writing: — 

" No claim has Death on souls like his, 

Save this, to set them free! 
From him fresh courage we would gain, 

His watchword ours shall be. 
He knew no fear, but dared to stand 

Alone upon the field, 
Where rebel tyrants bowed to him, 

Where vanquished foes must yield." 

When the Rev. Arthur B. Fuller, the brother of 
Margaret, and the personal friend of her poet-sister, 
Mrs. Hanaford, died on the field, she carefully 
planted one of the acorns that the chaplain had sent 
to his Northern friends; and both she and Caroline 
Mason sent forth in lines, "Upon the Acorns from 



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349 

Fortress Monroe," the grateful expressions of his 
worth which thousands felt, but needed a pen to 
unfold. A theme at a concert was a poem read by 
her young friend, Louisa Chapman, on Mr. Fuller's 
words: "Call nothing mine but God." 

Several of her tributary poems brought her very 
grateful words, and drew to her lifelong fellowship. 
Two widowed mothers, whose fair and titled boys 
fell thirty years ago, still live to grieve that they 
shall see her face no more. We may speak their 
names again, for their loves and their benevolences 
blend all along with the devoted Mabelle, — Mrs. 
Derby and Mrs. Dix. Of Mrs. Dix it is remem- 
bered that Mrs. Farmer said, "She is the only 
woman I ever wished to call Mother after my own 
dear mother's face was laid beneath the autumn 
leaves." Once, in writing to Mrs. Hanaford, she 
told her: — 

"I shall send the volume of your poems to 
Mother Dix. She has always loved you for the 
comfort you were to her in the darkest days of the 
agony when her Hervey fell. But for you, dear, I 
should never have known her. God only can 
understand what that dear Mother Dix has been to 
me. Sometimes I think I worship her, and who 
would wonder if they knew how pure the gold." 

Hervey Dix was a noble youth of twenty-three 
years, and Mrs. Farmer felt the touch of inspiration 
when Mrs. Hanaford told her of his martyrdom and 
his mother's grief. She dedicated to his name 
"The Patriot's Grave." Professor Farmer, sitting 



350 

at the piano, without thought of composition, took 
up the MS., and, as he read, it floated into song. 

We do not know that verse or music was better 
than other pieces from the same lips and pen, but 
"The Patriot's Grave" was caught up, as occasional 
pieces sometimes are. It was sung in churches, it 
found its way into concerts, it became indeed a 
memorial of a brave young captain. Mrs. Farmer 
gave its origin in a few words : — 

"I have just given Mrs. Dix the words of 'The 
Patriot's Grave,' and shall soon send her the 
music. Hervey Dix will always be associated in 
my mind with the stanzas, not because they were 
written expressly for him, but the lines were sug- 
gested by thoughts of his far-off grave. This led to 
the wish to link with it a pleasant thought as 
a comfort to other sorrowing hearts. The verses 
were written one Sabbath evening at twilight, while 
sitting at a window of my room, watching the 
leaves on the ground, which the wind whirled at its 
pleasure. In an hour we sang them to the tune 
which will some day be printed with them." 

Of the many little newspaper notices of "The 
Patriot's Grave," we select one from a Boston 
daily: — 

"'The Patriot's Grave,' a new piece of music and 
song, dedicated to the 3d Regiment Iowa Infantry. 
Words by Mabelle. Music by Moses G. Farmer, 
Esq. Published by Oliver Ditson & Co., 277 
Washington Street, Boston, and for sale in Salem 
by Whipple & Co. It is the grave of a Boston boy, 



35 1 

Hervey Dix, whose father is editor of the Boston 
Journal. He was a noble-minded and brave youth, 
commanding a small detachment of federal soldiers 
at the time he was killed in a victorious conflict, at 
Kirksville, Mo. His last words were in reply to 
a summons to surrender: 'The 3d Iowa never sur- 
renders.' The poetry and music are admirably in 
unison with the subject. Mabelle has sung in one 
of her most touching strains, and her husband, 
whose musical talents are of a high order, has 
produced in this piece a composition of unusual 
merit. It is adapted to the pianoforte, and will be 
found to be one of the best pieces the war has pro- 
duced. The lithograph picture of the grave is a 
correct as well as a beautiful design, and makes a 
fine title-page." 

The poem itself, without the music, freely circu- 
lated in newspaper columns throughout the war : — 

THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. 

O Autumn dear, we welcome thee here, 

For we want thy beautiful leaves 
To strew on the ground, and cover that mound 

Where the whispering wind now grieves. 

We will come, we will come, from our leafy home, 
And a bed there so warm we will make ; 

While the trees will stand as a sentinel band, 
As our way to another we take. 

Sweet moon above, from thy home of love, 

We pray thee look wooingly down ; 
For the soldier sleeps, and the nation weeps, 

Though he weareth the victor's crown. 



352 

With joy we will shine on so pure a shrine 

As the faithful soldier's grave, 
And to kiss the bed of your glorified dead 

Is the boon we so tenderly crave. 

O stars so bright, in your home of light, 

What part are ye willing to bear ? 
Shall your watch be as pure, and strong to endure, 

As the soldiers we place in your care ? 

We will guard them well, and the angels will tell 
How true we have been to our trust; 

For a holy band will evermore stand 
Where sleepeth such sacred dust. 

When the snowflakes white come down so light 

To rest on the earth here again, 
We know they will spread o'er our martyred dead 

Their snow-wrought counterpane. 

We soon shall fall, and will cover all, 
Is the answer we hear from the snow ; 

And will weave for your dead a soft white spread, 
That will crown them with green when we go. 



The following letter, written from Lynn to Mrs. 
Farmer, alludes to "The Patriot's Grave," but 
more especially does it convey the kindliness of a 
mother's heart whose two only boys, First Lieu- 
tenant Charles J. and Captain George W. Batch- 
elder, — the one twenty-six years old, the other 
twenty-three, — had fallen on battlefields. They 
fought under General McClellan, and were the sons 
of Professor Jacob and Mrs. Mary W. Batchelder of 
Lynn, but previously of the Salem High School. 
Mrs. Farmer had written out her heart about them, 



353 

for great was the public sympathy; and a little 
later the mother wrote to her: — 

uw The Patriot's Grave,' a sweet little poem by 
yourself, I had read aloud to my family from the 
Boston Journal some weeks since, with sad pleas- 
ure, not knowing at the time that you were the 
author. Many times since the death of my noble 
sons (only Gocl and ourselves know the greatness of 
their loss to us) you have shown me little kind 
and touching attentions, and particularly would I 
acknowledge our sense of your regard for their 
memory. I sent to General McClellan a copy of 
Mr. Shackford's memorial address, and of dear 
George's last letter and the lines by yourself, 
founded upon an extract of the same; and immedi- 
ately I received from him a letter of sympathy and 
condolence. This sad war has called forth many 
beautiful poetic effusions and much that is truthful 
and tender in the hearts of this people, which has 
heretofore been covered by a natural reserve, inher- 
ent in the constitutions of our Puritan community. 
It seems to me in all the future of our country 
there will be an inexhaustible wellspring of thought 
and feeling which our true poets will delight to 
give to us in their choicest words and measure." 

It was not alone in rhythmic comforts that she 
entered homes and breathed uplifting thoughts. 
Sometimes she actually took the spiritual, men- 
tal, or physical states. She became acquainted 
with a soldier's widow, and was very tenderly at- 
tached to her, and so truly in sympathy with her 



354 

bereavement that one day she seemed to be in spir- 
itual fellowship with her griefs, though they were 
miles apart. She had received a letter from the 
young widow, in which was written, "I do not wish 
you to weep for me, only, when you are able, pray" 
Mabelle entered into that rare yet veritable fellow- 
ship with her which Saint Paul describes when he 
said of Jesus, "that I may know him and the fellow- 
ship of his sufferings." After the peculiar expe- 
rience which to Mrs. Farmer was a revelation of the 
Unseen, she wrote to this friend: — 

" My dear Mrs. Crockett, — Your precious letter 
brought to my heart a great deal of comfort. I 
have read it again and again; and the more I dwell 
upon it, the more clearly I see that it was one of 
God's providences which led my mind through a 
peculiar experience in your behalf. I trace the 
Hand divine through it all, step by step. I mark 
each trial through the preceding weeks; your weep- 
ing so bitterly when you never allowed yourself 
this luxury before, your being brought down to the 
borders of the Unseen Land, your seeing your angel 
husband so absorbed in worship before the throne 
that he did not notice you, your being led of God 
to take little Ella more wholly to yourself, all go 
to show me the striking evidence between your con- 
dition and my vision of it. 

" I think, if you had seen your dear angel one as 
near to you as I saw him, you would have passed 
through the gates which lead to the Eternal City, 
and would be now where earthly toil is forever 



355 

ended. This was not your Father's will, and he 
sent you forth to make a home among strangers for 
purposes known only to himself. Your arm is to 
keep the precious Ella from falling. The danger 
to her where she was when I saw her was all un- 
seen perhaps by you, yet you were led to make the 
change. God's hand was leading you. The poor, 
sorrowing people which I saw in vision may never 
meet you face to face with the heart-breaking cry, 
'Pity me, O ye, my friends, for the hand of the 
Lord hath touched me' ; but they are no less all 
around you. It may be that you are to lead them 
home as you go about, through your supplications in 
the closet, through your submissive spirit as you 
bear the daily cross, through your cheerful faith 
which looks beyond the present into the great Here- 
after. All these ways open to you channels through 
which the heavy-laden are to be reached. Accept 
the work, my dear sister. Tell Jesus that you wait 
his will with a loving, obedient heart, trusting 
alone in his strength. An angel might covet your 
opportunities of doing good, and in eternity you 
will be amazed as you see the unfoldings of life's 
mysteries. As long as I live, February 3 will be 
to me a memorable day, — one that I shall set apart 
as a day of prayer and thankfulness. God was good 
to take from me all the burden I had so long felt 
for you. He saw that it would be needful to show 
me his loving care for you before I could lay this 
down. Accept the assurance, dear, patient one, 
that your angel husband is always with you; and 



35 6 

you will understand now why his face was turned 
from you when you saw him before the great white 
throne. But it will not be so when your work is 
done, and you are ready to go home. You will see 
him then, dear, before you cross the mystic tide. 
That our Father will keep you in the hollow of his 
hand until the joyful hour, and then present you 
faultless, is the prayer of one who loves you and 
hopes to meet you on the shining shore, if never 
here on earth. The grace, mercy, and peace of our 
Lord Jesus Christ rest upon you and abide with you 
until we meet where prayer is swallowed up in 
praise." 

Another hour of open vision was given her, and 
the influence of it was a strength to her all the rest 
of her days. 

"I seemed, dear Mrs. Soule, to be in the imme- 
diate presence of angels. A cloud of golden bright- 
ness settled around me, shutting out the world en- 
tirely. Oh, such a glimpse of the glory that is yet 
to be revealed! Your blessed angel husband was 
so near to me that I thought he left a crown on my 
brow. I was lost to the outward world and held 
communion with those fc who do always behold the 
face of our Father.' The blessedness of this angel 
presence thrilled my soul. I laid down my pencil, 
and covered my face with my hands. I no longer 
seemed a living being, but like one out of myself 
entirely. I had conceptions of the joy of those 
who are 'clothed upon.' I cannot tell how long the 
vision lasted. I onlv know that sounds from the 



357 

outward world fell harshly upon my ear; and I felt 
that to take up duties again would be a burden. 
But I heard Jesus say, ' Lo, I am with you alway, ' 
and I was strengthened. God be praised that I 
have seen the angels in this very room, and that 
the strength imparted by them is as needful to my 
soul's growth as the air I breathe is to my natural 
life!" 

These are the ways which God chose to bless the 
hearts that were in grief over heroic souls who 
were never more to come home from Southern 
plains. And on one of the Christmas days she had 
a most unexpected tribute to herself. From " Little 
Maria's Home" came a crown. It was very beauti- 
ful. Mabelle's eye fell upon it with surprise, and 
yet with the most appreciative and receptive love. 
She was not long in writing: — 

"My dear Mrs. Stiles, — What a surprise you 
prepared for 'poor, suffering Mabelle' ! I have 
hardly recovered from it yet, and the tears will 
come every time I think of it. How unfitted I feel 
to be crowned on earth or in heaven! But I have 
faith to believe that I shall be when I reach my 
Father's house; for have I not already seen the 
crownf [She alludes to the crown in the last letter.] 
God bless you, my dear sister Maria, for your treas- 
ured gift, worth more to me than diamonds, ex- 
pressing for me such unchanging love, so chaste, 
so beautiful. 

" ' Our broken buds,' 

" ' In heaven they will bloom forever.' 



358 

" If I were worthy of this gift, I do not think I 
could suggest a change. You know, dear, with 
what feelings it must have been received. I shall 
never be able to thank you. I wish you could read 
my heart about it. Am I born only to receive? 
Gratefully, lovingly, and always happy. Mabelle." 

We may well weave into this chaplet her greet- 
ing to her Maine brothers, when a regiment en 
route to the South was to pass her windows. She 
remembered her dear old Berwick hills and her 
Eliot home, and so her pen sang for the young 
brothers of her native State : — 



A MAINE GIRL'S GREETING. 
Respectfully Inscribed to the Maine 27TH. 

Ye are going forth, my brothers, with the army of the Lord. 
In the sadness of the parting, your lips may breathe no word, 
But through your deeds of valor will the Maine boys soon be 
heard. 

To your brothers who are calling, ye have answered, " We will 

come." 
Since the cause to you is sacred for which you turn from home; 
Now for you the dear ones praying, wherever you may roam, — 

May the God of battles guide you, that your feet may never 

stray ! 
May a star from heaven shining be a beacon on your way, 
And your eyes can see the dawning that will usher in the day ! 

Now the voice of God is saying, " You 7nust let my people go " / 
Ye may not all be willing, but your duty well ye know; 
And this is now the weapon with which to strike your foe. 



359 

Let your banners bear the motto, My country shall be free ! 
For the flag our fathers gave us is where we yet can see 
That the only hope of nations is the watchword — Liberty ! 

Then be ye true, my brothers, as ye raise the strong right arm; 
In every hour of danger be ye valiant, firm, and calm ; 
And this boon I'll ask of Heaven, that your souls be kept from 
harm. 

When the dove of Peace is resting her weary foot again, 

May the lessons taught the erring in our country's hour of pain 

Be rich with every blessing while your manhood ye retain. 

And now farewell, my brothers : your work is just begun. 
May a crown of glory wait you when life's battles all are won ! 
Then from your Glorious Captain you will hear the blest 
" Well done ! " 



XXVII. 



THE EXODUS. 



IT was the word of cheer, and not of regret, that fell 
from apostolic lips: "Let us go forth, for here 
we have no continuing city." In 1865 Mrs. Farmer 
realized this lack of continuance. The blessed 
Eden Home was to go under the hammer of an auc- 
tioneer. "Mr. Webb," she wrote, "who owned 
Eden Home is dead. This dear, clear house will 
be transmitted to another. We may be obliged to 
leave it. How can I? Will it kill me outright 
or shall I'die by inches? Hush, my heart. I look 
around on all that makes it dear, and through sobs 
and tears falter, L We* ve Jesus and each other ! ' 

To another listening ear was poured the same 
tale : " My way is very dark. This home is to be 
sold, and we must move, we know not whither. It 
may be out of Salem. I have the impression that 
for me it will be through death to life. The dear 
Lord sees, perhaps, that I can never get strength in 
Eden, so he hedges this door to open another. I 
am sure he will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. 
You must pray for me, dear, more and more." 

The fullest and tenderest recital of her going 
forth in the Lord's strength and power, from the 



3 6i 

dearest spot she ever knew, is a letter to her sym- 
pathetic Mrs. Souther, of Hingham: — 

"I am feeling a little rested this morning, and 
the gathered strength shall be devoted to you, my 
precious darling. I could not have you learn by 
another's pen that Mabelle is an exile from Eden 
Home. O Eden, sweet Eden! God forgive me if 
my heart yearns for that blessed place as it never 
can for another. Hush, poor, breaking heart! It 
was needful to wean thee from that delightful 
home. There is a heavenly abode, to be won only 
through the stress of suffering. In March [1865] 
our good landlord went to his reward; and the dear, 
blessed place, which I had chiistened Eden Home 
sixteen years before, passed into the hands of 
strangers. I knew the cloud was gathering; but, 
when it fell upon us, I was like one wrecked. I 
clung to my Eden as a mother does to her dead 
babe. It was decided by the heirs to cut a street 
in the rear of the house and to sell the field of 
locusts for house lots. The view of the broad, beau- 
tiful river and western skies would be shut out, the 
entire enclosure desecrated by sheds, workshops, 
tenement-houses, etc. The grass plot before the 
door was overturned by the plough, and was prepared 
to be a vegetable garden until that, too, should go 
for workshops. As these changes thickened, I felt 
I must go, or my heart would break. Tearfully was 
my consent given that another house should be se- 
cured, where the White Bird (Love's endearing 
name) could fold her wings. On the 24th of May, 



362 

the birth-month of my angel. I left Eden forever. 
Open your arms, precious one, fold me in love to 
your bosom while you kiss away these tears. Lay 
your dear hand upon the heart throbbings, and 
whisper to me of the home eternal. 

"Our goods were all taken away, and at three 
o'clock I was left in Eden alone. This was the 
earnest wish of my heart. I knew that strength 
could come only from God, and that I must be alone 
with him. It seemed as if the one who was all the 
world to me, or our sweet Birdie, would come be- 
tween me and my dear, loving Father. At seven 
o'clock, the hour I had named, dear husband came 
with the coach to carry me away. He unlocked the 
front door, and came to my room. I felt as I think 
a condemned criminal may when he hears the turn 
of the key which opens the door for his execution. 
I was lying upon a lounge which a near neigh- 
bor had sent in for my use in these last hours. I 
was watching from my window the final setting of 
the sun. O my darling, pen nor brush can ever 
transfer that sunset to canvas. Gloriously beauti- 
ful! The stately trees were a halo of glory. Dear 
husband folded me in his arms, kissed the tear- 
stained cheek, and said, 'All that made this Eden 
will go from here with you, my precious dove.' I 
could only answer, 'Pray.' He knelt at my side, 
poured out his soul in words of gratitude that the 
life so bound up with his was yet a comfort, and 
that dear Birdie was the sunlight of our dwelling, 
that Baby Clarence, our angel, would go with us to 



363 

our new home, that every sacred memory would be 
ours forever. As he recounted our mercies and 
none of our sorrows, my heart grew trustful, and I 
could say, 'The Rock of my Salvation, cleft for 
me.' I went out of Eden, supported by the strong 
arms of my own blessed Moses. I could not let 
another cross that threshold with us. At the door 
the coachman came to help me. He little knew 
that the physical tremor was the least of my trials 
then. When we reached this, — how can I call it 
home? — they were obliged to lift me as one dead." 
Caroline Mason wrote her at this time a letter 
quite in spirit with her En Voyage: — 

" Then blow it east or blow it west, 
The wind that blows, that wind is best." 

"My dear Mabelle, — How sorry I am you have 
left Eden Home ! I can well appreciate your regret. 
But you will create another Eden where you are. 
Do not grieve too deeply for the dear old place. 
God's appointments are sometimes dark to us, but 
in the dear home above he will make them all clear. 
Your sorrow, however, is natural and proper, kept 
under the control of Christian resignation. I 
hoped to see you in Eden once more, — that lovely 
home. But I content myself with the thought of 
a call elsewhere, without any respect to your sur- 
roundings. I trust the new home will in time be 
as pleasant to you (though it may never be as dear) 
as your old one." 



XXVIII. 

1865 LINDEN CASTLE I 868. 

"\ ~\ 7 HEN Eden Home was resigned, the family 
V V belongings were transferred to the man- 
sion of Essex Street, not far from the opening of 
the old Boston road. She knew not as she entered 
it if it were to be permanent or her transitory rest. 
As she was borne over its threshold, it seemed to 
her like entering a castle; and because of its 
beautiful linden-tree it pleased her to date her 
letters ever after from "Linden Castle." 

"Here, dear child, I am. It is a grand old 
castle. Voices of the past are here. It was occu- 
pied once by the first senator from Massachusetts. 
George Washington spent one night here, and his 
chamber is the historic room of the house. But 
the home is not like me. I am a stranger here. 
My sweet, little Anemone will know that it can 
never be home to Mabelle." 

Again she playfully told her story : — 
"I read of a child who was sitting with her 
mother, when a servant opened the door and said : 
4 You rang for me, ma'am.' 'No,' said the lady. 
The child responded: 4 I rang. Ma is so disagree- 
able, I wish you would take her downstairs.' I am 



3^5 

very like that ma, I expect. And I shall be more 
so if I stay much longer in this great castle. God 
help me and keep me from dishonoring him. But 
I have so much to test my patience every hour. I 
do not know why God keeps me where I am so un- 
willing to stay; yet it is all right, or he would 
change the plans." 

How beautifully God does change plans by bring- 
ing us into such holy acquiescence that our sweet- 
est cups are those we once repelled! The dear 
woman, in the lonesomeness of rooms so utterly 
strange to that home-iness of her heart, began to 
breathe out again the singular beauties of her utter 
harmony with the will and sweetness of heaven : — 

"I have come into a great blessing and life. 
You remember that I left Eden without doing all 
the good I longed to see accomplished. Of late I 
have reached the willingness to wait until the har- 
vest, and not know whether the seed that was there 
sown fell into good ground or stony. Results are 
always God's. Jesus saw my heart, knew that by 
precept and example I tried to teach some families 
to love one another and to bear with one another, to 
grow gentle and loving. Since I have left all re- 
sults with God, I have been a great deal happier, 
and have heard Jesus say, 'Wherefore didst thou 
doubt?' Well, on Saturday I had a letter; and a 
poor child acknowledged that my advice to her was 
right, even when she turned away, and she wishes 
me to let her call and talk with me again in Linden 
Castle. And I sent her word that she would find 



366 

the same loving heart from which she used to turn 
away." 

Again she writes after an experience of pain 
which her own pen will describe on a future leaf: — 

"Alone with God and his dear angels. This 
great, icy room mocks me with its chill. Its still- 
ness is oppressive. I hush my breath as I think 
of the history of this house and of the people who 
have called it home. Alas! where are they now? 
There comes no answer, and no response of fellow- 
ship or companionship from these silent walls. 
Their great empty arms are far beyond my reach. 
I look up for comfort to him who says, b I am always 
with you.' Blessed Promise:*, lead thou me to the 
rock higher than I. This room with all its lone- 
liness is consecrated, — consecrated to suffering. 
Here life was given back from the portals of the 
grave. Here God revealed himself as he does not 
unto the world. Here his angels, who do always 
behold the face of the Father, minister to my every 
need. But here, too, my wings seem always 
folded: and I cannot soar into the clear sunlight, 
beyond the memory of crushed hopes, broken buds, 
that will bloom only in the garden of God. Here 
I am chained to the past; and my strength is wasted 
in the unequal struggle to keep my faith in God 
clear and my outward life calm as the unruffled sea, 
— placid on its surface, and yet with a deep under- 
current which bears its unresisting victim far on 
toward the great Unknown. And here I struggle: 
no power to turn my gaze from the picture so con- 
stantly presented : — 



3^7 

" Before my mental vision 

The dusty wayside teems 
With struggling, toiling millions, 

Whose hopes are only dreams. 
I feel the heartfelt yearnings, 

The deep, despondent tone, 
That cometh from these sinking souls 

On life's rough billows thrown." 

" But I wait upon the Lord, claiming the word that 
I shall eventually run and not be weary, walk and 
not faint. He must renew my strength." 

Hitherto we have casually spoken of Mrs. Far- 
mer's days of physical suffering; but the reader has 
never been asked to stand at her painful pillow, and 
glance at the actual sorrows of the life of this mar- 
vellous woman. Shall we ask you now to a pen 
picture of a day at Linden Castle? Poor heart! 
she was tested to the utmost ; but she was not found 
wanting. The story of this day was sent to her 
choice friend, Mrs. Souther, who was in the same 
sort of fires, but who was dismissed to her everlast- 
ing rest long before Mabel le had ended her God- 
blessed days : — 

" My sufferings grew very severe, and I could do 
nothing but cling to the cross of Christ. Sunday 
will be a day that I never shall forget. I never 
knew such agony. If you could have looked into 
my chamber, what a picture you would have seen! 
The doctor supporting me in his strong, tender 
arms; dear Fanny wiping what seemed to be the 
death sweat from my brow. Poor, dear Moses 
covering my cold, white face with kisses which I 



368 

could not return, and turning away with strength 
hardly sufficient to support his weight; and Sarah 
and Edwin asking now and again, 'What can I do?' 
until the sufferer was the only one who seemed to 
bear no part in this great struggle for life. Every 
breath was agony, and it seemed for hours that 
each one would be my last. The doctors begged of 
me to be etherized. But I was afraid it would not 
ease the suffering, only render me insensible, and 
then I should scream as I did before, so that the 
night police came under my window. That seemed 
dreadful to me ; for you know that never yet, if I 
had my reason, did a sound of suffering pass my 
lips. But the dear ones could stay with me no 
longer; and then I left it all with the doctors to 
do with me whatever they deemed best, and I was 
etherized at once. I was insensible for the night. 
When consciousness returned, the intense suffering 
was relieved. 

"On Monday there was another consultation of 
three doctors. They do not speak encouragingly of 
speedy recovery; but dear, good Dr. Macfarland 
says he 'shall never despair of my life.' I have 
been a great deal more comfortable since Monday: 
and dear Mira Eldredge is coming to-day. I am 
so happy, because she will pray with me. Jesus is 
the ever-present help. He never leaves me." 

The allusion in the foregoing letter to the utter 
absence of any expression of pain brings fresh to 
mind an incident related of Mrs. Farmer. She 
went to Dr, Fiske, a Salem dentist, and sat un- 



3^9 

flinching in his chair for the removal of all her 
teeth. Suddenly he stopped, and exclaimed : — 

"Mrs. Farmer, do you never scream?" 

"Never," was the quiet rejoinder. 

"Well, do, I beg of you, or I shall never get 
your teeth extracted." 

Another day of her Salem *ife — a day of agony 
. — floats into memory: a reverend gentleman, who 
had heard of her excellences and kindliness, but 
who had never seen her, called, and she did not 
like to refuse him, though she could hardly speak 
for pain. So severe were the cramp-like attacks 
that the muscles were twisted like a chain. She 
nerved herself for the interview. So quietly did 
she receive him, and so living the smile upon her 
face, that the clergyman said to her: 'Are you sure, 
Madam, you should be lying here? Does not 
imagination have something to do with it? I can- 
not believe that you ought to be shut up in this 
room!" He went away with the impression of 
nerves, while every breath, as he sat by her bedside, 
had been a suppressed agony. 

With the revealing of physical distress in the 
letter which we have quoted, it will not be strange 
to read the following reference to the "dear Moses" 
whose tenderness in all her years of weariness was 
equalled only by the Lord's: — 

"I never saw Moses so sad in my life as the last 
two weeks. He wrote dear mother, 'We are all 
as sad as sorrow can make us while my blessed 
treasure is with us.' I was not willing for him to 



37 o 

send the letter, and it is still upon my table. He 
seems to realize now that some time I must die. 
For a week he was not undressed, nor did he lie 
down upon his bed. He scarcely slept or ate, but 
watched me night and day. How can I repay such 
loving tenderness! Do you know what a happy 
family we are? I almost long to see the dear 
Saviour, and thank him for the blessed life we are 
living. I am still very happy, though I suffer a 
good deal. But with joy or pain my heart is fixed, 
trusting God. I feel that my work is not done, but 
that is not my care. I know God will go with me 
when earthly friends can no longer hold my hand." 

Most tenderly did a child of sorrow write for 
her at this time, a letter which will bring recollec- 
tions of the living sympathy she had with every- 
body's distresses : — 

"When Mabelle's poor head aches so that she 
cannot write you, yet she thinks of you. It does 
seem to me that she is always thinking more of 
others than of herself. She tells me to write that 
yesterday her Moses, who is afraid lest a breath too 
strong should reach her and bear her away, begged 
of her not to even dictate a letter. 'But I want 
you to tell Mrs. Souther most of all,' she says, 
'how happy I am. Oh, it seems as if the light of 
the beautiful city is shining upon the river: it will 
not be dark for me to cross.' Could you know all 
she passes through, your heart would ache. Satur- 
day was a day of great anxiety; yesterday, of more 
comfort; to-day, again, of stronger pain. I have 



37i 

just laid my head upon her pillow, and the tears 
would come. Oh, I have learned to love her; for 
when the severest sorrow of my life had come upon 
me, and my heart broke, when little Maria, my pet 
lamb, went to the angels, nobody so comforted me 
as Mabelle. Heaven bless her. L. M. S." 

A letter without date, perhaps, belongs to this 
period. It is one of the daybreak letters, indi- 
cating that a night of pain was passing eternally 
away : — 

"Doctor said yesterday, 'Thee looks better and 
more natural to-day than I have seen thee since 
thee has been sick: thee looks now like thyself.' 
The first thought was, How thankful I am that I 
shall not leave any impression on Chislon's mind, 
when he visits us, that I am sick! You wrote 
once, C I can never think of you as sick and suffer- 
ing.' How pleasant this must be to you, when you 
know that I must bear this burden of life to the 
end!" 

A picture like this of physical suffering would 
seem to present a sufficiency of discipline, if so it 
may be called, for any human life. But some souls 
are so scorched or bruised that not a fibre of life is 
left untouched by the furnace heat or the anvil's 
hammer. We have walked with Mrs. Farmer in 
the scorch of the flames: let us now step with her 
toward the blows of the anvil. From the home 
beneath the linden-tree she wrote to her early and 
beloved friend, Mrs. Pray, and told her of a new 
discipline, not of pain, but of its equivalent, — a 



372 

perplexity that brought its weight unbearable to her 
care-taking brain and heart : — 

"I think, if my life is spared, I shall give to the 
world a 4 History of an Inventor's Wife.' If I do, 
even my nearest and dearest friends will be aston- 
ished at the way in which we have been led. But 
we have demonstrated one thing to the world al- 
ready: that two can be poor, and at the same time 
perfectly happy. This life of self-abnegation is a 
blessed one, and that which is to come will far ex- 
ceed it. Last Sunday the minister said that great 
and wonderful discoveries could never be wrought 
out unless somebody suffered in doing it. This 
is the inevitable connected with their birth. My 
Moses and I do not doubt it." 

And then follows the heart-opening, — a baptism 
of her pencil in tears. Dear soul! it was a moment 
when she was divinely blind to the future path. 
God sometimes makes a veil of clouds before he 
reveals the morning star or the rising sun. While 
this envelopment was upon her, she added to the 
letter to Mrs. Pray: — 

"O Charlotte! it was twenty-two years last 
Christmas since I was married, and here we are 
without house or home, without even the means to 
procure what would seem to be absolutely necessary 
for my present comfort ; and yet there are men to- 
day who count their hundreds of thousands realized 
from the inventions of my dear husband's brains! 
Now tell me, dear Charlotte, why does God suffer 
this? Nobody could ever want while my husband 



373 

had a dollar or a dime. Nobody was ever more in- 
dustrious or worked harder than he has for the last 
twenty-two years. Not a week has he taken for re- 
laxation from business for more than seven years; 
and what has be to show for it to-day? Not a dol- 
lar or its value. Do you wonder that I lie here 
upon my pillow and think this all over till my poor 
brain reels? If we were only out of debt, I would 
never complain of being poor. I want to be rich 
only for the sake of doing good. All that dear 
husband has ever invented the world has the bene- 
fit of, and I have always been willing to help him, 
and humbly hoped the world would be the better 
for our having lived in it ; and there is nothing I 
regret except our being brought to a position where 
we cannot discharge our present liabilities. I 
think it would have been right for us to have pro- 
vided a home for ourselves before allowing others 
to enrich themselves by what rightly belonged to 
the dear Moses. Why do I turn to you this dark 
picture? I love you, Charlotte, as I have loved 
but few; and the affection is as undying as the 
Power which gave it birth. I would not have you 
feel that I am complaining. God is leading me, 
and with humble trust I wait his will." 

God never left a lamb of his fold without the 
freshness of pasturage; and in Mrs. Farmer's 
darkest days there was nourishment for her cour- 
age. When she knew that her soldier cares must 
be laid down, she exacted a promise from the house- 
hold : — 



374 

"The dear ones have said to me that no soldier 
shall be turned away from my door without my 
knowing of his needs. I could not be denied this. 
My thoughts are continually with them." 

Once, when a soldier came, she sold a piece of 
her silver to provide him with the money he needed. 

God gave her a fresh joy now. She had known 
that a soldier's widow should have a pension, and 
she appealed to Mr. Lincoln. His death followed 
so soon that she knew not what became of her 
letter. 

Singularly enough, in that dark, dark day of the 
Linden life, she joyfully wrote, "Do you know 
that Andrew Johnson has sent me the letter I wrote 
dear old Father Abraham? " And the widow's re- 
sponse was : " Thank God for my pension, and now 
ask him to give me wisdom to use it. Dear friend, 
under God, I owe all this to you." 

Another bright beam of her Father's face was to 
follow the welcome tidings of the pension, — a half- 
hour visit from Clara Barton, whose life of heroism 
she rejoiced in and whose name she always spoke 
with a gratefulness that God was bringing the day 
when the recognition of woman's work and woman's 
heart should be universal. Miss Barton gives an 
interesting revealing of her brief interview, in a 
letter to the Rev. Phcebe A. Hanaford : — 

"Washington, D.C., November, 1866. 

" Dear Mrs. Ha?iaford, — Just a moment in which 
to thank you more than my pen will ever be able to 



375 

do sufficiently for your introduction of me to your 
angelic friend, 'Mabelle.' Reaching Salem in a 
late train, I could only see her previous to my de- 
parture the following morning at ten o'clock, — 
less than a half-hour in all. But, oh what a half- 
hour! Half-centuries have had less of heaven in 
them. I cannot tell you what was said. I best 
know that I listened and wept with her dear arms 
about me the whole time, and promised, when a day 
came that could be spared from the varying occupa- 
tions of my life (if she were able), I would go and 
spend it with her. You said well that 'the angels 
seemed ever in her room.' I know it is so; for I 
have felt more grateful, happy, and loving toward 
all humanity since the moment I entered it. What 
patience, resignation, Christian faith, trust, prin- 
ciple, I found there! The subject is so pleasing to 
me, and I am so grateful to you, that I can scarcely 
bring myself to lay aside the pen ; and, still, mes- 
sengers wait, and I must obey. Believe me lov- 
ingly your friend, Clara Barton." 

It will be most interesting next to read Mrs. 
Farmer's letter concerning the meeting: — 

"My dear Mrs. Hanaford, — I am wholly in- 
debted to you for the honor which dear Clara Bar- 
ton conferred upon me to-day. What shall I tell 
you of the glorious interview with this dear child 
of God, one whose highest aim is to live and labor 
for him and do good to all ? My faith has had a 
new impulse, bearing me above this physical suffer- 



376 

ing which has so long held me in its iron grasp. 
To me Clara Barton has been a benediction, sancti- 
fying me by her unselfish life long before the 
sweet, low tones of her tuneful voice fell upon my 
ear. How long have I followed her every step, 
watching eagerly for tidings from her, praying that 
the angels might have charge concerning her, — 
more than twelve legions, if so many were needed, 
— to shield her from danger and death. Through 
all these years in which our country has been in the 
sufferings of purification, to have touched the hem 
of her garment would have been life-long joy. 
And, dear Mrs. Hanaford, what do you think my 
feelings were when her name was announced, and I 
knew she was beneath this roof which had sheltered 
George Washington, and almost within reach of my 
clasping arms? Oh, the peace of that moment 
would more than repay me for all my years of pain! 
u In the thirty minutes that she sat by my bedside 
she did not tell me much of herself. She seemed 
unwilling to do this; but the little that she did say 
is written where time will not efface it. Some 
time in the future she promised to spend one 
whole day in my room. The dear girl told me that 
it was harder for her to face an audience than to 
face a cannon. This is the only word I ever knew 
of her saying that I thought was wrong. I ]ong to 
have you see her sweet face, and you will say as I 
did when she passed out of my sight : — 

' 'Tis true she came in human guise, 
But angel still she met my eyes.' 



377 

"I caught glimpses of those who do always behold 
the face of our Father, through her who has thrown 
a halo around the name of woman. This account 
is so meagre. But holy was her mission to me. I 
shall be a better woman for the half-hour in- 
terview." 

To a pastor among the hills, pinched for need- 
ful newspaper intelligence to evolve his Sunday 
sermon, she sent a word about the fresh interest in 
the Cretans (1866): — 

"Yes, dear C, I am very thankful to send you 
clippings from all our newspapers concerning the 
present interest in the poor Cretans. My good 
Moses says that you are very correct in supposing 
that I should be among them in these days of their 
struggles, were I only on my feet and in comfort- 
able health. But God knows best where I can do 
good, and I am now where he wishes me to be. 
The article I send you among the clippings in 
French is very interesting, and, if you do not read 
that tongue, your Mira will translate it for you. If 
it had reached us earlier, Moses would have sent it 
in English; and this is all I can do for the Cretan 
sermon." 

On a wedding day, she writes to the bridal pair: — 

"How pleasant it will be to recall this, your 
visit to my bedside, as husband and wife! You 
met a tearful face, to be sure; but no words from 
my lips were necessary. The moments were too 
holy to be forgotten. As I held each of you by the 
hand, it seemed as if I were receiving: a charge from 



373 

God that I was to watch over you as long as I live, 
and, if the time ever came when one should turn away 
from the other, that my hands were to bind you 
with a threefold cord, never to be broken. Re- 
member, dear children, that Love demands more 
nourishment than your bodies. Are you prepared 
to supply the demand? If I could, how gladly 
would I point out the rocks where you may be 
wrecked! The little Now is nothing to be com- 
pared to the great Hereafter. Live for God only. 
Father Cleveland says, 'We shall have just such 
furniture in our souls in heaven as we have here.' 
Sarah said of the ceremony at the church, 'It was 
very impressive, and I wonder, mother, that we all 
did not cry.' But she made no mention of your 
personal appearance. This pleased me. It is the 
way to go through life, — nobody able to tell what 
you wear. The wedding flowers were brought to 
my room; and, as I look at them, of this I am as- 
sured, God will mete out to you that which is best." 
["Twenty years later the beautiful temple reared 
that day by trusting love lay shattered at their 
feet, but from the ruins the husband penned this 
song of divine victory."] 

TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

A score of years ! I look behind, 
And scan that pleasant April day, — 

Its robin song, its blue-bird note, 
And bursting bud of every spray. 

One score of years ! my very heart 

More filled that hour with light than thev. 



379 

I woke this morn: the robins still 
On every breeze their warbles fling, 

I see the blue-birds on the trees, 
And watch the opening leaves of spring. 

And like a prayer the query comes, 
What now to me does April bring ? 

A memory, — nothing, nothing more ; 

A memory, — like a faded leaf 
Shut up in book or unused drawer, 

Or laid away like coffin-sheaf ; 
And yet a purpose, simple, true, 

To stronger be than any grief. 

What if the mildew fell upon 

That Wedding Morning of the past ? 

What if the sunshine of that hour 
Too perfect was all day to last ? 

I am to take to-day, and say, 
" No other portion will I ask." 

And though I cease to lean or trust 

On human love or proffered hand, 
One thing I've learned, the less of earth, 

The more of God is at command. 
And, laying down a broken staff, 

I by his inbreathed Presence stand. 

Then let the robins sing to-day : 
My heart responds to higher thrill, 

The Love Divine, — the Living Spring 
That touches but with life to fill. 

'Tis God to-day, not human heart, — 
A wedded joy no blast can chill. 

The dying of Jane (Farmer) Little in 1867 was 
an event to the family at Linden Castle. This 
gentle sister and wife had been brought almost to 
the grave, and then had gathered a refreshing from 



5So 

Heaven and had tarried for months, but finally had 
passed along to join the company upon the shining- 
strand. Of the first decline Mrs. Farmer wrote: — 

" 1 fear my strength will fail. My heart is very 
sad. Our dear little sister Jenny is nearing our 
Father's house. She is almost there, and mother 
— our angel Mother Farmer — is watching her 
coming — perhaps even now beckoning to her. 
Yesterday prayers were offered for her in the church 
at Boscawen, by her request. The dear ones are 
all there, — waiting, watching, praying: everything 
will be done that loving care can do. But I cannot 
share that labor of love. Here, alone with God, I 
must bide the issue of life or death. Sarah Coffin 
writes to me, 'She is as patient as a lamb in all 
her agony.' Moses is there. God only knows 
what my telegram will be to - morrow. If the 
change is unfavorable, Moses will be there to hold 
her hands till the angels take her. 'One must go 
first, darling.' Yes: his words are true." 

It was not death, only its foreshadowing: and 
later the Coffins went to the East, not dreaming 
the sister would quicken her footsteps to a holier 
land before their return. "I am very glad, my 
dear Mrs. Hanaford," wrote Mabelle, "that you 
went to see the dear Coffins turn their faces to the 
East, the lands I so long to see. I hope your feet, 
too, will tread the hills of Judea, and your lips 
breathe my name in Gethsemane. I shall see the 
risen Lord when I have passed the Jordan, but I 
long to tread the paths his own feet pressed. God 



38i 

bless the Coffins in their absence, is the prayer of 
their sister. You can never know what a dear sis- 
ter Sarah Coffin has been to me, — -all that is pre- 
cious for twenty-two years. Heaven will reward 
her." 

June in its beauty was the time of the dismissal 
of the sister Jane. 

"A telegram in my trembling hands, — 'Dear 
Jennie is dead.' Did you ever think what a cold, 
bare fact a telegram is? No voice comes with it. 
If somebody could only add, 'She has just begun to 
live.' But I cannot weep for the dear little 
blessed sister who has loved me so long. There 
is one upon whom this blow will fall with crushing 
weight, separated by land and sea from all that is 
home and dear. Only a week or two ago Sarah 
Coffin wrote, 'If I have an idol, it is my sister 
Jenny.' But now there will be only the grave and 
its memories to greet her. Do you know that dear 
Sue Henderson is almost there, too? Dr. Morse 
says she will go to Father's house with quickened 
steps now, as the symptoms of departure are appear- 
ing. Sarah arranged the flowers as you wished, 
and we sent them to her in your name. You will 
miss her, but do not weep for her." 

Another change of house became a necessity. 
The owner of Linden Castle was to dispose of the 
estate. It was not a grief as the leaving of Eden 
had been; for, with all her good cheer, she was 
lonesome in the great halls and rooms which failed 
to seem home-y to her : — 



382 

"This great house is to be sold very soon. The 
Nichols' are going West. Now, what have you to 
say to that? Your heart will give a glad leap, for 
you have never wished us to stay in this place. 
But I have dreaded the thought of living here less 
than the thought of dying here. It would have 
been dreadful to have died here. No, the house 
has never been home. But the garden, with its 
perfect wealth of flowers and vines and fruit-trees, 
chains me; and I think, if the N.'s were to retain 
the estate, that we should live and even die in this 
'great, old, ugly, disagreeable house,' as you de- 
nominate it. And yet the house is pi ecious. The 
angels have gathered here day by day, and brought 
words of comfort from him who sitteth upon the 
throne. Here my life was given back from the 
portals of the grave. Here, too, have we had 
Heaven's protection at midnight; for several 
efforts have been made to 'break through and 
steal.' The eye that never slumbers is above us 
still." 

It is no wonder that "life was given back," when 
it trembled on the verge; for, in telling the story 
of the distribution of a box of "good things" which 
had been expressed to her love and care, she de- 
veloped the fact that daily prayers had been offered 
in her behalf for years in a school-room : — 

" Now I must tell you of your goodies, and who 
has shared them. My first thought was of dear 
good Hannah Bowland, who goes without, herself, to 
give to the pooi and needy; but Jesus loves her for 



3^3 

it. She lives in her school-room alone. She has 
no conveniences for cooking, even if she had things 
with which to cook! I told Sarah that some of these 
good things must go to her. She said she would get 
into the next car and take them to her. So I fixed 
up a big basket and sent the dear old saint a por- 
tion of all you enclosed in the box. Sarah says it 
would have done you good to have seen her. She 
was so thankful she could find no words to express 
it. I am sure it will make you happy to know 
what you did that day for Jesus. There has not 
been a day since I have been confined to this room 
that Miss Bowland and the little school-children 
have not prayed aloud 'for dear Mrs. Farmer.' Do 
you wonder my thoughts turned to that teacher 
first ? Oh, how the angels love to hover about that 
school-room! Husband said to-night, 'I don't 
know, dear, but prayer is all that has saved you in 
life; and I know, if it be so, that Miss Bowland's 
school will come in largely for the share of the 
blessing which we so often implore for all who have 
ministered unto you.' Isn't it beautiful to think 
of those infant voices raised in my behalf? They 
are delighted to think I am getting well; and they 
have caught Miss Bowland's faith that God will let 
me live. Who can tell the influence upon their 
lives of being taught to pray? May they never for- 
get to call upon God." 

A victory wonderful for her did Mrs. Farmer 
gain beneath that roof. When an editress had sent 
her in advance a proof-sheet editorial in which 



3^4 

references were made to her joyfulness in suffering 
and her hands of benevolent love, she gave a re- 
sponse until then unusual : — 

"No, dear, I will not 4 find fault.' I am slowly 
learning that I should give my Father the full 
benefit of my one talent. He has laid his hand 
upon me, and said: 4 She is mine now, to be used 
wholly in my service. Suffering must be her 
earthly portion, for that fits and prepares her for 
a place in my vineyard.' I humbly trust I have 
responded, 'Thy servant heareth.' The time has 
been when it would have given me inexpressible 
pain to have had you refer to me as you do in your 
editorial; but now I see that such shrinking is not 
right. God has wonderfully furnished me with 
patience, cheerfulness, and courage in all this ac- 
cumulation of physical suffering. If he sees fit to 
show through me what grace can do, should I not 
be willing that other poor suffering ones should be 
encouraged to taste, and see that God is good? The 
suffering laid upon me has been more than mortal 
could bear without the strength which comes from 
God. That he has spared me through it all, only 
goes to prove that he has some particular design in 
the affliction, and that he is not to be turned back 
until that is accomplished. If the raising of my 
hand, out of the divine order, would restore me to 
health, I would not lift it. I would not controvert 
one plan of God. Mercy and love crown me. His 
angels are with me day and night, and I almost 
mingle my songs with theirs. It is blessed to wait 



3^5 

between two worlds. Many thanks for the pleasant 
allusion to dear Moses in the editorial. He de- 
serves all the good things you can say of him." 

In one of her weary days she wrote, " It is hard 
to wait for strength, as it never comes so slowly as 
when you are waiting for it." 

And then comes her latest penciling in Linden 
Castle, with its date of May 29, 1868 : — 

"My thoughts are much with you these tiresome 
days. It is such hard work to lie still and look on 
when there is so much to be done. We are packed, 
and go from Linden Castle when I am rested and 
the weather is favorable. You can never know how 
worn I am. Verily, I feel older than dear Father 
Cleveland! But my heart is strong and courageous. 
I am sure that I shall be well again." 



XXIX. 

1868 — pilgrim's rest — 1872. 

THE new retreat of the family was the house on 
Essex Street on the northerly side of the 
Campus at the North Church. It was shaded by the 
elms of the sanctuary, and a pleasant refuge. The 
day. of entering was the day of a most singular catas- 
trophe. A Boston fire devoured without mercy the 
skilful utensils that Professor Farmer had been the 
fourth of a century in developing and making. The 
removal from Linden, also, was but another launch- 
ing of the sufferer into prostrations and pains little 
less than death. To human thought death would 
have been the sweetest gift of God. She must tell 
the story : — 

''''Dear Chislon, — The silence between you and 
Salem has grown oppressive; and, though I am far 
too ill to write, yet I must do it, since I have pain 
enough to give me the needed strength. My good 
Dr. Morse thinks danger from ulceration is passed; 
and that, if I can be kept perfectly quiet, I shall 
rally. You understand how easy it is to keep me 
quiet; but I will do the best I can, since it seems to 
be Father's will again to turn me toward life. Why 
did not God take me home? I presume you have 



387 

heard of the severe loss of my clear good Moses 
by fire on the 28th of May? He lost every- 
thing in the shop, laboratory, and office except his 
desk. The fire did not even spare the books upon 
the table. AJ1 the rare and beautiful electrical ap- 
paratus that he has been twenty-four years in per- 
fecting went as food for the hungry flames. He 
says five thousand dollars would not replace what 
he lost. No insurance. It was not property that 
he could insure to advantage, as he was constantly 
at work upon a good deal of it. How strange that 
the dear Lord should take from him all the means 
whereby he earned his bread, leaving him only his 
willing hands and ever active brain! There is no 
murmur in my heart. God does no wrong. As for 
dear Moses, he bears it like a conqueror; and I 
think he is too thankful for the life of his poor, 
worn-out, useless wife, to mourn over his great and 
irreparable loss. I do not know what we are to do. 
He who fed the prophet by the ravens will care for 
us ; and by and by he will come and take us to 
himself." 

To Mrs. Pray: — 

"Dear good Moses feels his loss more and more. 
It is so hard to get along without the things he 
has found of so much use all these years. He has 
now no office in Boston, and it is uncertain what he 
will do. I do not want him to decide just now. 
As soon as Sarah graduates, we shall go to Eliot if 
I am able to be taken there. A little grave is 
there which I have not seen for eight years. One 



388 

great longing has taken possession of me, — to go 
there; and go I must if I am taken on a bed. But, 
my darling, it will not do for me to turn my heart 
toward you to-night; for you would see it is almost 
bursting with unshed tears. God bless you for- 
ever." 

Considering the desolation of health and prop- 
erty, it is not singular that she writes, " I am so 
tired." 

"Dr. Morse has seen me every day since the 
1 8th of last October, and sometimes two and three 
times a day. Dr. Gove also came with him a 
greater part of the time until he left Salem. Dr. 
Macfarland also came out from Boston to see me 
sometimes, and yet I am not cured. Shall I 
ever be? I am so tired, Charlotte; but I love you." 

But the joy bells will ring even if days are dark 
and circumstances bewildering. Interests will 
come into life which pick up our thoughts and our 
strength. So the rallying time came in the midst 
of the ruins of the summer of 1868. In July was 
the graduation of the daughter, — an occasion of 
the very sweetness of satisfaction to the parental 
hearts. The mother, in her gratefulness that her 
long months of pain had not deprived the child of 
the delightful privilege of completing the full 
course of study, wrote : — 

"My dear Mrs. Hanaford, — Sarah's graduation is 
to be July 22, her birthday. It is to me particu- 
larly pleasant that it should be on that day, as the 
arrangement was made wholly on her account, 



339 

though she knew it not until the plans were nearly- 
completed. It is a comfort to me that she will 
leave school with the love and respect of all her 
teachers. How thankful I am that she has been 
able to complete the course! You know what I 
have suffered to keep her in school, though it can- 
not be called a sacrifice; for it was done unto 
Christ, the great Teacher, who has kept me long in 
the school of affliction. As I look at the dear child 
and see that all she has acquired and developed will 
be used for God, my heart is too full of thanksgiv- 
ing for expression. My blessed Master knows 
there is no earthly ambition to be gratified, that all 
we have done for her has been unto him, that all 
the success which has crowned her faithful effort 
has been attained through his grace and mercy. 
Now my life does not seem to have been wholly a 
useless one. I give to the world a good daughter 
who loves God, and whose greatest desire is to do 
good. I shall not have lived vainly, even if my 
days have been filled with suffering. Still pray for 
us, that we may consecrate ourselves to the work of 
benefiting others." 

Again the cloud rises, not in darkness, but as 
incense of sweetness unto the Lord : — 

"My dear Mrs. Hanaford, — Tell the dear, suf- 
fering ones at whose bedside you minister that the 
religion of the cross has power to rob even death of 
its sting; that the chamber of suffering has been 
made to one soul, through the riches of free grace, 
the sweetest place on earth. Oh, the blessedness 



390 

of the suffering which draws so near to the All- 
compassionate, to him who loves us with an ever- 
lasting love, upon whose breast the weary head can 
rest when earth affords it none, when the loved and 
the loving can only watch with sleepless eyes and 
mark the agonies they have no power to alleviate! 
I have no thanks to lay at your feet which can be 
expressed in words for your sweet offering of 
flowers. The beautiful wreath lies now upon my 
bed. It is to me a marvel. 

On every bud and leaf I trace 

Some promise of God's love, 
Which makes the many hours of pain 

Calm as the rest above. 

" If I had not asked Jesus for these precious flowers 
yesterday, I do not think I could keep them all, 
even for a night. But I know the dear Lord put it 
into your heart to send them to me from his house 
of prayer; and I take them in his name, asking for 
you and for all whose eyes rested upon them the 
richest blessings he can bestow, even a heart re- 
newed and sanctified by pardoning love." 

When again the joy bells rang, it was at the re- 
turn of the Coffins from " Our New Way round the 
World." It was Dec. n, 1868, and the wires 
announced the arrival in Boston. 

" Dear Chislon, — Tired as I am, I cannot sleep 
until I have written you the joyful news. Dear 
Charlie and Sarah Coffin are in this house. 

' Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
Praise him all creatures here below.' 



39 1 

I trust we are praising him with grateful hearts. 
Oh, you don't know how thankful we all are! 
They reached Boston last night, and wired us this 
morning. Two hours later came the second de- 
spatch, saying they would be here this afternoon. 
I do not know how I waited. Gerrish had written 
them not to take me by surprise, hence their cau- 
tion. But God himself prepared me so beautifully; 
for last night, at eleven o'clock I was writing for 
Alfred Little to his mother, and all at once Sarah 
Coffin came to my side and put her arms about me. 
When she folded me in her arms, a few hours later, 
it was no more real. Then I dreamed of her all 
night; and in the morning I told husband I thought 
she was near me, and I should see her very soon. 
As I was lying here, all at once I felt that I must 
be dressed. I called Sarah to assist me, and told 
her that Carleton and Sarah must be in Boston. 
Ten minutes later the despatch came. How good 
God was to prepare me ! Now that I have heard 
Charlie pray, I will go to sleep if I am not too 
happy and thankful." 

Her gladness found its expression in song, and 
Mabelle sent the following to the press. The allu- 
sions to the lost Jennie, who died on the 27th of 
June, 1867, and to the mother (Sally Gerrish 
Farmer), who had died before the journey was 
begun (1864, Oct. 26), completed the group which 
one day, when another long story is told, will 
be indeed in most delightful communion, — in the 
heaven where the word will be echoed truly, "Our 
loved ones all are here." 



392 



WE ARE ALL HERE. 

" C. C. Coffin, familiarly known to our readers as ' Carleton,' 
completed his tour 'Around the World' last evening, when, 
after an absence of over two years, he reached this city. 

"Mrs. Coffin accompanied her husband in his protracted 
wanderings, and bore the fatigue incident to the trip with 
great courage." — Boston Journal, Dec. u, 1868. 

Hands clasped again upon this side; 

Lips pressed once more to mine. 
O Lamb of God, thy eye can see 

What countless thanks are thine. 
We bless thee for protecting love, 

Which led the wanderers home ; 
For faith to trust them in thy care, 

Where'er their feet would roam. 

We bless thee for the daily prayers 

Which followed them so long ; 
For grace to say, " Thy will be done," 

If we should ask thee wrong. 
We bless thee for the influence wide 

They left for God and Truth ; 
And scattered seed that yet will find 

Some patient, toiling " Ruth." 

We bless thee for the Christian friends 

They found from shore to shore ; 
For loving hearts to welcome them 

When journeyings were o'er. 
We bless thee that our scattered band 

Has all been spared so long; 
That voice and heart blend here, to-night, 

In grateful prayer and song. 



We bless thee for the perfect faith 
That sees, through blinding tears, 

A vacant chair, a lonely home, 
Which memory still endears, 



393 

Without a murmur at the change 
That brought such bitter pain; 

But well we know the loss to us 
Was to dear Jennie gain. 

And, as we welcome back once more 

The loved of many a year, 
Our hearts burst forth in thankful praise 

That all of us are here ! 
Even the blessed angel one, 

Who faded from our sight, 
Has folded here her snowy wings, 

And shares our joy to-night. 

We see the same sweet, sunny smile 

That beamed on us of yore ; 
We hear the music round the throne 

Through heaven's half-opened door. 
We see our precious mother's face 

(Though she's with Jesus now); 
We feel her soft caressing hand 

Upon our weary brow. 



'to 



Thus joy is mingling with our tears, 

While peace fills all the heart, 
Flowing from him, the Fountain Head, 

Where all these tendrils start. 
Life's heavy cross has lighter grown, 

And all our joys more sweet, 
Since angel ones have gathered here, 

The loved of earth to meet. 

And now, O Lord, we bear to thee 

Our grateful hearts in song ; 
Accept, and use it for thy praise, 

Forgiving all that's wrong. 
This night of discipline and pain 

Will have a morning clear, 
If we can say in heaven, as now, 

" Our loyed ones all are here." 



394 

Among the souvenirs at Mabelle's disposal, at 
the return of the wanderers, nothing was more 
grateful to her than pebbles from Bethany. 

'* I have a beautiful agate," she wrote, "which 
dear Sarah Coffin brought me from Bethany, the 
home of Mary and Martha, and the home, too, 
which Jesus loved. I have had a breast-pin made 
of it ; and the pieces which were cut from it I 
shall distribute among those who will value it as I 
do; and I do not think of one, Mrs. Hanaford, 
who will prize a fragment more sacredly than your 
own dear self." 

With another piece of the treasure went the 
word : — 

"Perhaps it came from the very roadside where 
our dear Saviour walked as he went out from the 
city to rest. It was nigh unto Jerusalem, you 
know." 

Almost her first ride from Pilgrim's Rest was to 
Sunny Cove, at Manchester-by-the-Sea, for a few 
hours with Mrs. Meader, the mother who, when her 
last little lamb had been transferred to the fold 
above, and her husband was on the army march, 
sent the little socks which the baby feet had never 
worn as an offering to the Fair. 

"Yes, dear C, we were amused at your surprise 
over our visit to Sunny Cove and the Meaders. We 
did not intend to tell you about it until I was rested; 
and then I was to surprise you. But Mrs. Meader' s 
pen was ahead of mine. We had a delightful day, 
only it was not long enough. I wanted to go right 



395 

back, and I wish I could now. Mrs. Meader was 
like sunshine, and you know my veneration for him; 
for he was a soldier. All soldiers are kin to me. 
Dear, good, kind Mrs. Meader, how generous she 
is to everybody! Life is worth so much to one 
who has the faculty of doing 'a world of good.' I 
must see the dear soul again sometime, and shall 
go, if it please God, when the leaves are turning 
brown . 

"I have been steadily gaining for a month. Can 
go about this floor with much comfort, even up the 
stairs. It seems like a dream. Now I have a new 
hobby: I want to go to the Peace Jubilee. I asked 
God two weeks ago to arrange for the tickets, if it 
were his will that I go. Last night a ticket was 
sent me. I never told anybody but God that I 
wished for this sign of his will. So, if you hear 
that I am in Boston, you may know it is a part of 
the divine plan." 

Another pleasant episode which occurred in 1869 
was the christening of a babe in the parlor of Pil- 
grim's Rest: — 

"Now, dear children, about the dear little baby's 
baptism. It is to be here at Pilgrim's Rest. I 
have something to tell you that will make you very 
happy. Sarah Coffin has brought home waters 
from the river Jordan, and our Robie is to be 
christened with it. I long to know what you will 
say to it. I asked God to incline your hearts to 
come to us for the ceremony, and he inclines you. 
Dear children, God help me as I write it, do you 



396 

know that I never kissed my precious angel, Clar- 
ence? Sometimes the thought comes with such in- 
tensity that I say in my anguish, l O Grave! give 
back my dead.' Sarah Coffin suggests that the 
water be saved and used if we (our little trio) unite 
with the church. Shall I ever sit at Christ's table 
on earth or at his feet in glory?" 



XXX. 



BY SEA AND BY LAND. 



" St. John's, Newfoundland, Union Hotel, 
Sept. 28, 1869. 

"IT will doubtless be a great surprise to you to 
1 see where happy Mabelle dates her letter. It 
is, nevertheless, true that we are out of Uncle Sam's 
dominions. We left Salem on a forty-eight hours' 
notice. Mr. Farmer is inspecting the land lines 
and the cables of the New York, Newfoundland, 
& London Telegraph Company. He would not 
have considered the offer a moment but for the 
hope of the good the trip would do me. Dr. Morse 
thought the sea voyage the best possible thing for 
me. So here I am breathing the purest air this 
side of heaven. It is too soon to predict what the 
result of the experiment will be; but I am very 
hopeful, and filled with courage. The rest I leave 
with the dear Lord and Master. A moment ago 
my good Scotch attendant knelt at my bedside, and 
asked me how I could look so happy when I was so 
sick. Poor child, she does not know how long the 
storm of my life lasted before the sunshine broke 
through the cloud. 

" I will try to tell you of our voyage. How dread- 



398 

fully I felt when the ropes were drawn in and we 
drifted from all I held dear save those whose arms 
were about me! It was an entirely new experience. 
It seemed as if I must reach out and cling fast hold 
of something on shore. There can be no different 
feeling in dying. But the sweet assurance is mine 
now that in death I shall be conscious that I am 
not alone, any more than in that never-to-be-for- 
gotten moment. You cannot think what a weary 
night it proved, with the rocking of the boat and 
the water beating its monotonous time against the 
sides of the vessel. My Sabbath was spent in my 
berth, too sick to hold up my head or to get much 
rested. At Halifax we remained several hours. 
Of course, I did not go ashore. At Ship Harbor 
my good Moses was obliged to leave me, as he 
wished to make experiments there; and at Plais- 
tow, soon after he left, the wind began to blow and 
the gale was so severe I thought I should have 
to be tied into bed. But he who said, k It is I, be 
not afraid," was with me. On reaching Pictou, as 
we were transferred to the tug-boat, the gale seized 
my cloak cape, and it went over my head. But, be- 
fore the cloak could follow, the captain and another 
man seized me, and held me together until I reached 
the landing. I know you will smile at my ridicu- 
lousness, but poor dear Birdie was frightened al- 
most out of her wits for fear I should be actually 
blown away. But I was not disturbed. My only 
dread was a misstep which would carry me into the 
water, for I had so little strength I could hardly 



399 

control my feet. This trip will kill me or cure 
me. 

" Husband rejoined us at Pictou ; and on Thursday 
we left for Halifax, where we spent the night. We 
then took passage in the 'City of Halifax,' Captain 
Jamieson, for St. John's. We receive the most un- 
bounded kindness, the captain even calling at the 
hotel to inquire for us and sending us a large box 
of grapes. From my pillow I can see at least forty 
children at play in the street before the hotel; dogs 
ditto. Pigs run free in public thoroughfares, and a 
barefooted woman is not unusual. I really believe 
the houses are more than a hundred years old. It 
is the quaintest, cutest place on the globe. I do 
not think there is a grave on the island. I do not 
believe anybody can die. There is too much oxy- 
gen in the air for death. Every breath is a new 
lease of life. Its effect upon me is perfectly won- 
derful; for, notwithstanding all I have been 
through and all I am suffering now, I can rise from 
the bed without help and walk across the floor. At 
home with half this suffering, I should have to be 
lifted from one side of the bed to the other. 
Thank God for me. 

"An hour after we reached the hotel Dr. Hayes 
and party arrived from the Arctic regions. So you 
can imagine how interesting it is for Birdie to hear 
them recount their adventures. Have you seen 
Bradford's "Crushed by Icebergs"? He is of the 
party, and is to call upon me to-day with Dr. 
Hayes. What a day it will be to remember! The 



400 

evening of our arrival a gentleman called and 
placed his carriage at our disposal every day we 
wish to drive, and hoped we 'would do him the 
honor' to use it. Two ladies also sent up their 
cards, and invited us to drive. The next morning 
was an invitation to 'Twenty Mile Point,' and this 
morning a drive to the convent. Birdie is invited 
each evening. 

"Nobody locks a door or fastens a window; and 
the guests at the hotel leave their doors wide open. 
Is not it a glorious way to live? I have views of 
St. John's for you, but one sees nothing he would 
much care to buy as souvenirs. I covet nothing 
but some beautiful wares that I have seen." 

The family left St. John's October 17, waited 
awhile at Halifax until Professor Farmer finished 
his special duties, and on the 23d they registered 
at the Astor House, New York City. At New 
York, viewing some phases of life and society 
which she was obliged to meet by direct observa- 
tion, she wrote, "If I stay here long, I shall be- 
lieve everybody is bad." And yet she at once cor- 
rected herself, as she continued with her pen: — 

"But I must tell you a story, because, first, you 
will be interested in it, secondly, you are a minis- 
ter, and some time you will teach your people to 
sow beside all waters, and you will illustrate your 
theme by repeating this incident, and it will set 
somebody to thinking of a poor little boy or girl 
whose hand he can take and lead him on to 
a higher position. Well, now for my story: Mr. 



401 

Farmer meets in the parlors at evening a young 
man of thirty-one years, who seems to retain, with 
a fair, boyish face, all the simplicity of childhood, 
which really means much in a life such as is neces- 
sarily developed in a great hotel like this. His 
father died when he was nine, and his mother when 
he was fourteen years of age; and he was turned 
upon the wide world with only a satchel. 'But,' 
said he, ' if I am ever of use or do any good, I owe 
it to a man in Boston.' Then he told how this 
gentleman met him, and always spoke carefully and 
faithfully to him, and had a fatherly interest. And 
he added: 'I have always tried to prove my grati- 
tude, but I thought the other day I would do more. 
I would send for him to come, and show him my 
friends, and let him see where I lived; and I wrote 
him that no guest would be more welcome. The 
answer came that he was dead, and the funeral is 
to-day at twelve o'clock. Mr. Farmer said the 
poor fellow looked as if he will cry himself to 
sleep, when he lays his head upon his pillow to- 
night." 

The dear woman who thus reiterated her hus- 
band's story little dreamed that a score of years 
later, as her words were being copied out of her 
letter for this printed leaf, a person of strong char- 
acter and great force of will would be saying at the 
same time: "All I am I owe to Mrs. Farmer. My 
family was poor, and I was wild. My father beat 
me, and I would run away. I loved to be hateful 
at home, for I knew it plagued the family. But 



402 

one thing I could never forget, — that Mrs. Farmer 
wanted me to be good. She always smiled when 
she saw me, even if I had run away. She always 
said things that softened me, and my one only wish 
to be good was to please her. She was the only 
one in my childhood that I ever wanted to please. 
And, if I am good now, it is because of Mrs. Far- 
mer." So Mrs. Farmer had sowed beside all 
waters, and to-day ministers still by a thousand 
memories which are continual sermons. Mrs. Far- 
mer added to her little story a very pretty sequel : 

"But the old man, whose blessing still rests 
upon the life of his protege, did have a reward; for 
a year ago, while on a visit to Boston, the young 
man met Governor Claflin, and the two were some- 
what thrown together, and the governor did him 
the honor of a public introduction to the Senate. 
I do not know but the dear Lord has allowed this 
veil to be lifted just now, that I may see that some- 
thing good is in New York, notwithstanding all my 
contrary impressions." 

Still another page of her letter is written with 
the quaint pen she held when an amusement came 
to her : — 

"Smiles and tears are strangely mixed in this 
world; and, if you cried over the last page, you will 
laugh over this, as I do now. I have a Canadian 
girl to attend me; and she is as kind as my mother. 
She feels dreadfully about my sickness, and says of 
me every day to Sarah, 'Poor thing! it's a shame.' 
When she had arranged me for the night, and was 



403 

leaving for her room, she knelt beside me, and said : 
'I know why you are sick: it is the only way God 
could have kept you good. He made you so hand- 
some that all the men would be after you; and 
then you would be vain, like all the rest of the 
ladies in the parlors.' I was very silent; but, as 
she was passing out, Mr. Farmer came in, and she 
courtesied, and said to his surprise, 'You ought to 
be very thankful, sir, that your wife is so sick.' It 
was such a new light thrown upon my years of dis- 
cipline that we both cannot but laugh at the be- 
witchments of my beauty and the poor Canadian's 
simplicity." 

In Mrs. Farmer's letters from Mrs. Souther al- 
lusions have been made to Mr. Ryan, a man of God 
in New York, who had often been a comfort to the 
sufferer at Hingham. By Mrs. Souther's sugges- 
tion, he came to the Astor House to pray with Mrs. 
Farmer: — 

"Yes, dear Mrs. Souther, No. 170 has been 
sanctified to-day. Your precious friend, Mr. Ryan, 
one of the disciples whom Jesus loves, has been 
here, and these walls have resounded to his songs. 
Here prayer, too, has been offered for you and for 
me. God be praised! His tuneful voice vibrated 
in these dull ears of mine, and I heard him plead 
with Jesus who had power to make the deaf to hear. 
In that season of prayer a faith sprang up in my 
heart that he would thus be merciful to me. O my 
darling, if you could have heard that prayer! I 
tried to remember its every word, but my soul was 



404 

wafted to him who was listening. There comes a 
hope that the dear Lord will give me back my 
hearing. Oh, if he only would! that I might once 
more go to the sanctuary and hear the gospel, and 
commune with the dear children of the King. Mr. 
Ryan's visits have been to me like the rain. I do 
not wonder he brings heaven down, for it is the 
only air he breathes. 

"And I have seen another person within the 
week wholly given to God, and he was an Arab. 
Eight years ago he was a follower of the Prophet, 
and had never heard of Jesus ; and now he is preach- 
ing the blessed gospel. I looked into his blue 
eyes as his lips told of the luxury of doing good. 
When I heard him sing, I knew I was more than 
repaid for the sufferings I have known since I left 
the Pilgrim's Rest. Not a word that he spoke 
could I hear, but I saw his beaming face, and that 
gladdened my heart every time I looked up; and I 
silently plead with God to give me hearing or make 
me willing to be denied." 

Then she made a confession to Mrs. Souther that 
has a tinge of the plaintive, and touches us with 
a pity in the reading of it which we might not have 
had in talking with her; for she was in presence so 
full of cheerfulness of heart and life that we never 
thought of pity then : — 

"Yes, dear one, like Topsy, / specs Pse berry 
wicked; but, dear, precious child, I do want to be 
good all the way through, and you must help me. 
I will confess what you suspect, that there is a 



4 o5 

growing reluctance to see strangers. Can I help 
it, when I cannot understand what they say to me? 
It is the same as speaking in an unknown tongue. 
I cannot define the reluctance if I try; for I am 
social in my nature, and my friendships are for 
life." 



XXXI. 

1 844 SILVER BELLS I 869. 

IN her daily text-book Mrs. Farmer has written: 
"Dec. 25, 1844. Moses and Hannah married. 
A happy union. God be praised." The hand that 
could unhesitatingly make this record, only kept 
pace with the heart that desired to especially re- 
member and recognize the silvery return of the 
wedding day of 1869. God gave the full answer to 
the prayer, and the joy bells rang as if they were 
angels' voices. Dating a letter, Dec. 8, 1869, 
from Pilgrim's Rest, she makes a request of the pen 
whose rhythm was always grateful to her : — 

"My dear Mary Webber, — My silver wedding is 
to be celebrated Christmas night, if that is the will 
of my Father in heaven. I want very much to have 
you write me a poem for the occasion; and you will 
not refuse me? We have so many friends in the 
city that we shall not send cards, but make all 
happy who come, without formality. The Eastern 
Road will allow us an extra for friends out of town. 
You will see Carleton and his wife. I am a great 
deal better than I have been for ten years. How 
can I thank God for this respite from pain! He 
only can know how thankful I am. I have not for- 



407 

gotten the holders which I promised you so long 
ago. The material to make them went with me to 
that strange Newfoundland, and bore me company 
the entire two thousand miles." 

The pleasant assurance of the poem was received, 
and she playfully wrote another of her dear friends, 
"Now, Charlotte, make up the pineapple silk as 
soon as you can, and be all ready for Salem at the 
silver wedding." On the 14th of December she 
wrote of the peculiar wealth her husband had ac- 
cumulated during the twenty-five years of wedded 
life. It is a serious letter, and her soul betrays 
itself: — 

"It is said that inventors die poor. Thank God 
a man can never die poor who has led such a self- 
denying life as my Moses. If he should die to-day, 
he would leave the world a richer man than George 
Peabody. If we had laid up for a rainy day all he 
has earned, instead of doing good with it through 
his inventions, he would have quite a little fortune. 
I thank God that he did not. He wanted to spend 
in that manner which would do the greatest amount 
of good, and his wife wanted to have him. Our 
life thereby has been one continued struggle with 
poverty, trials, and sickness. It may all end with 
dying in the poorhouse. I have no doubt I can go 
over the river, thanking God that heaven is as near 
the poorhouse as the palace. I have no fears for 
the future. All will be meted out to me in mercy. 
I do not think there is another woman in the world 
who would want to live if in my place, but, while. 



408 

Moses and Birdie are here, I must not want 
to go." 

To another she tells of the letter sent to Mr. 
Clark, of Clarendon, Vt., who married them; to 
Dr. A. Winn, of Farmington, N.H., who was the 
groomsman, and adds : " Our bridesmaid, too, is 
living, and all but three of the guests. The Rev. 
Mr. Clark's wife, her sister, and our own Jenny 
Little have gone to their rest and reward. The re- 
mainder live to congratulate us." 

The day came, and Pilgrim's Rest was in quiet 
beauty. The double parlors were decorated with 
evergreens from the Eliot home, the place where 
the early vows were registered. The company 
came and went through the afternoon and evening. 

Mary Webber, modest as the violet, read her 
manuscript. "I know you will like it," said 
Mabelle, a little after the occasion, "for it is just 
like herself." 

You scarce will need my song where Joy's 

Full diapason swells ; 
But yet, dear friends, my heart has heard 

Your Anniversary Bells. 

The voices of the happy Past 

Leap from each silver tongue, 
Long years since Hope's enchanted ground 

Their earliest peals o'er rung. 

There lingers yet in Wedding Bells 

The cadence of that hour, 
When earth beneath its Maker's smile 

Lay like an opening flower. 



409 

When life was beauty, life was joy, 

For man was one with God, 
And hand in hand with innocence 

Love walked the Eden-sod. 

And better still, O friends, your bells 

Have caught the glad refrain 
From heaven's own diapase that charmed 

The angel-haunted plain. 

Yours is the auspice of that hour 

When waves of music sped 
News of his advent in whom earth 

Once more to Heaven is wed. 

Ye have his presence who himself 

Shall pour the festal wine, 
Where hearts united cling to him, — 

To him, the Living Vine. 

Oh, not to sorrow's lone retreat 

Was his first presence given : 
At Cana's feast he smiled to own 

That Love makes earth like heaven. 

Nor yet palm-shaded Bethany 

Alone invites his rest : 
No home so humble but may have 

The Master for a guest. 

If his abiding, friends beloved, 
But make your hearthstone bright, 

From this glad centre, o'er wide earth, 
Shall radiate floods of Light. 

Mrs. Souther, the friend long endeared by the 
fellowship of pain, sent a pretty hymn, which 
proved to be her last offering: a few more weeks, 
and she touched the strings of the lyre in the pres- 
ence of God. 



4io 



WEDDING CHIMES. 

Welcome, sweet friends, to-night ! 
And may Love's holy light 

Each heart enshrine ; 
May joy flow full and free, 
And, as in Galilee, 
May Jesus deign to be 

Our Guest Divine. 

Softly the silver chime 
Strikes on the ear of Time, 

Twenty-five years ! 
Years fraught with golden bloom, 
With Eden's sweet perfume, 
Inwove with sorrow's gloom, 

With smiles and tears. 

Heart joined to heart, we've trod 
The way marked out by God, 

Through weal and woe ; 
Yet brightly o'er us now 
Love sheds the same sweet glow 
As when we made the vow 

So long ago. 

Within this home of ours 
Budded two tender flowers 

To bless our eyes. 
One blooms with us to-night, 
But one — a lily white — 
Passed from our longing sight 

To Paradise. 

And many a loving friend, 
Whose kindness knows no end, 



4ii 

And daily do we pray 
That he will guide their way, 
And lead them day by day, 
From earth to heaven. 

Chime, chime, ye wedding bells ! 
Richly your echo swells, 

Divine your tone. 
While angels, robed in white, 
Twine garlands pure and bright 
To crown the blessed night 

That made us one. 

Ring out, ring out, to-night ! 
Beneath the starry light 

Let music swell ! 
While we our vows renew, 
In joy and suffering true, 
And strive by grace anew, 

In God to dwell. 



Caroline A. Mason did not withhold her offering 
of kindness; and the pen that has been attractive 
to thousands presented the following: — 

SILVER WEDDING. 

"A song," dear friends, wherewith an added zest 
To give to this sweet birth-night of two souls 
Born into one ? Ah, would that we had words 
Divine enough ! But what, indeed, are words? 
O wedded ones ! ye are yourselves a song 
Set to completest music ; your twin souls, 
Accordant, tremble into one full strain, 
Sweeter than any music ever sung, 
Nobler than any poem ever writ. 



412 

Yet might we add our slender note, nor mar 

Thereby the perfect harmony, nor play 

Quite out of tune, 'tis thus that we would sing : — 

O happy ones ! whom, hand in hand, 

Through gladness, tempered still with tears 
Of patient pain, our Lord has led 

For five-and-twenty years, — 
O happy ones ! we give you joy ! 

To-night the cup of wedded bliss 
Ye quaff anew without alloy, 

And give and take Love's kiss, — 
As warm, as pure, as trusting now, 
As when it sealed Love's earliest vow. 

O happy Wife ! for all the pain 

They've brought you (borne with angel grace), 
The vanished years come back to-night, 

And smile up in your face ! 
O happy Husband! wealth-endowed 

With the sweet love of child and wife, 
On you, as well, the past smiles down, 

With richest memories rife. 
Oh, still, as erst, above your home 
God's dearest angels go and come ! 

Your home / oh, " sweet, sweet home," his lyre 

The old-time poet tuned aright ; 
Sung years ago, the dear refrain 

Is on our lips to-night. 
For still, 'mid pleasures, palaces, 

The weary heart may roam for bliss, 
And still in ho?ne alone 'tis found, — 

Ay, such a home as this. 
As this / God bless it with his love 
Until exchanged for that above. 



As a grateful close of the day were read the "sil- 
ver rhymes" of Mrs. Hanaford. She was not pres- 



413 

ent in person, but kindly sent the manuscript as 
her substitute: — 



SILVER WEDDING RHYMES. 

Yes, ring the bells of Christmas, and their chiming 

Shall be the song. 
With all your hopes and memories sweetly rhyming, 

Joy to prolong. 

The joy which once was yours in Love's own crowning 

You shared " lang syne," 
And with no thought save that of perfect gladness 

Said each, " I'm thine." 

Years have rolled on, — a quarter century rolling, — 

Ye have not changed ! 
The Christmas bells will ring, — no solemn tolling 

For love estranged. 

For still your hearts in love are fondly beating, 

Still ye are one ; 
And now this silver wedding season, greeting, 

That love your own. 

To be the brightest flower God ever gave you 

Along your path, 
The holy influence that will help to save you 

In heaven or earth. 

God has been with you, shade and sunshine blending 

Along your way. 
And at your silver wedding he is sending 

Again love's ray. 

The friends who gather here in love now greet you ; 

The friends from far, 
Whose path was o'er the waves, have come to meet you, 

Here gladly are. 



414 

The near, the far, in kindly purpose gather, 

To wish you well, 
While they unite in asking of our Father 

To bless you still. 

Still in the fields of Freedom may you labor, 

And toil for Truth, 
Still blessing, as of old, each friend and neighbor 

In age or youth. 

And, when your Christmas wedding days are ended 

Here on the earth, 
We'll gladly greet you, with the saints ascended, 

Round heaven's hearth. 

The written words of this day of pleasant recep- 
tion of friends from town and from Boston and its 
neighborhood are not many. Mabelle says : " I went 
into the parlors at five precisely, and received all 
who came. At seven Dr. Morse came, and said that 
I must lie down. I thought my head would burst. 
All at once, as I was upon the sofa, the 'Dying 
Swan' came to my memory, — 'The sweetest song is 
the last she sings, ' — and it rested me more than any- 
thing else in the world could have done. I asked 
help to rise so far above the physical as to 
welcome with restful, cheerful words all who came 
later. And just then you came. Never was I 
gladder to see you, dear children, than at that mo- 
ment. I took a world of comfort from the little mes- 
sage upon your written paper. I knew that if God, 
as you wrote, was making me look as in the days of 
health, then surely my face was not betraying the 
fearful struggle to receive in that evening parlor. 



415 

The pain baffled word or pen. As the doors closed 
at ten, I was laid upon the sofa, and from thence 
assisted to this dear chamber a few hours later. 
Now I am resting in the arms of Infinite Love, and 
humbly trusting to be evermore a better wife." 

To Mrs. Hanaford was sent a later letter, when 
the silver memories were yet echoing: — 

" It was a great deal, my dear Mrs. Hanaford, 
for you to lay aside your varied work and write the 
'Silver Wedding Rhymes' with which I am so 
pleased. It was an addition to your labors, but I 
was selfish enough to desire them. I must tell you 
the comfort of two lines of the poem: — 

' The Christmas bells will ring no solemn tolling 
For Love estranged ' ; 

and the angels take up the refrain and bear it to 
our Father. Can you find a more beautiful or a 
more truthful expression in the English tongue 
than this quotation from your poem? God only 
will ever know what a sorrow it was to me not to 
see you at the wedding. I could not be reconciled 
but in the thought that it was the will of God. I 
watched for you hour after hour, and could not give 
you up even when the last guest had departed. 
The gathering was a very large one, and all were 
happy. If you see Dr. Spaulding, of Hingham, he 
will tell you what I have not strength to write. 
But the heart would wander away for the missing 
ones. Full as our rooms were of some of the dear- 
est friends I have on earth, they were empty, com- 



416 

pared to the angel host which folded their wings 
above us. At times it would seem as if I were one 
of that throng, and could almost hear the songs 
which blended with ours. As I looked over the 
gathering, it was sweet to know that Jesus had 
been invited to come in and sup with us. I heard 
the other day of a lady who said it seemed like 
going to heaven. And another said, 'It was the 
best prayer-meeting I ever went to.' I don't 
think, my dear Mrs. Hanaford, that you will ever 
go to a silver wedding like it." 



XXXII. 



AN OPEN DOOR. 



THE silver wedding over, a fresh opportunity, 
as if by divine arrangement, came to find the 
path to health. Heretofore it had been like the 
olden search for the fountain of perpetual youth. 
But Mrs. Farmer knew no discouragements; and 
therefore she reveals another open door in letters 
dated at 69 West 38th Street, New York: — 

"Since the memorable silver wedding I have 
lost ground, — less strength and vitality; the circu- 
lation so torpid and obstructed that my heart is the 
centre of much suffering; my hands numb and help- 
less at times, so that we have become anxious for 
results. Unexpectedly, dear good Moses was called 
to New York on business; and we decided at once 
to improve the opportunity of testing Dr. Taylor's 
treatment. There is already a favorable change. 
I leave the rest with the great Burden-bearer." 

With the increase of "favorable changes" there 
was an increase also of the pleasant things which 
our Father is never loath to allow us as we journey 
towards his visible Face; and June 9, 1870, Mrs. 
Farmer had a day which she cherished among her 
many loving remembrances : — 



4i8 

" It is twenty-one years to-day since we moved 
into Eden Home. How little I thought of the life- 
long memories that would cluster around that sweet 
river-side house! And now another event is to 
make the day memorable. Dear Mrs. Hanaford is 
installed to-day, and my eyes have looked upon the 
face of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe two long de- 
lightful hours of this blessed June day. Mrs. 
Stowe came on Tuesday, with her eldest daughter. 
I could not get the courage to send for her to come 
to my room, though I have longed to see her ever 
since her published words 'To Sorrowing Mothers.' 
Wednesday night I told Dr. Taylor my wish to see 
her; and he said at once that, if I were able to 
cross the hall to his parlor, he would arrange it. 
Yesterday morning, as the patients were coming 
from breakfast, he invited Mrs. Stowe into his 
parlor. She told him she would return to it when 
she had been to her own. So he came directly 
for me, and I was just seated when Mrs. Stowe 
came in. The doctor innocently introduced me 
as a patient whom he had taken out for an early 
walk. She asked a question about me; and, as 
he answered, he drew a chair to my side, and said 
to her, 'Perhaps you will speak with Mrs. Farmer 
while I see a patient.' She took the chair, 
remarking, 'My husband says I am a very poor 
talker.' I asked her if ever he told her that she 
was a very poor writer. She shook her head, and 
blushed as the girl who reads her first composition. 
Now, dear, you will wish to know what I think of 



419 

Mrs. Stowe. I found in the first place that I had 
an ideal Mrs. Stowe; and, while I was talking with 
her, I became aware that she was another individ- 
ual altogether. Just now I am thinking them both 
over to see if the ideal and the real will mix. At 
present they do not blend. She asked me if I had 
read the 'Changed Cross' ? Of course I told her yes; 
and she said a good deal about the comfort it had 
been to her, and wished that she knew the author. 
I told her I had a letter upon my table from the 
author, and I wish you could have seen Mrs. 
Stowe's face. It lighted instantly with a glow of 
beauty, and she listened to every word I said about 
her. Sojourner Truth -has been here, but I did not 
see her. Mr. Farmer and Birdie did. One remark 
was very like her. Concerning her photograph, 
she said, 'I have been sold a great many times as a 
slave; but I never thought then, Massa, that this 
ole woman would ever sell herself. ' 

"June 6, 1870. It was a great comfort that you 
should think of Mabelle on Memorial Day, and I 
do wish you could have mailed me a flower from 
one of the precious soldiers' graves. As I read 
your description of the memorial at Newton, my 
heart said, 'They died for you and for me.' You 
would be astonished to know how my heart thrilled 
and throbbed at the thought of the soldiers who 
gave up their lives to save mine. I seldom speak 
of it, for so few understand why I feel so; but you 
do, because the veil has been lifted, and you have 
read some of the pages of my heart. Dear, pre- 



420 

cious Mrs. Soule wrote to me while sitting by the 
grave, waiting for the procession to come. Do you 
wonder that there is but one grave she can see on 
our Memorial Day? Pity her, and pray for her, and 
pity all the aching hearts." 

It was next her gladness to write of an hour and 
no pain : — 

"The suffering grows less every day. Some- 
times for hours I do not have a pain. Is it not 
wonderful? The limbs are warm, and the hands 
never numb. I have so far regained sensation in 
the left limb that I can tell when my weight is 
upon it, and this I have not been able to do for 
years; and I can bend the limb without cramp. 
Dr. Morse came to see me from Salem, and marks 
a decided change." 

With the increasing joys of her intermittent re- 
lief from pain, God blended her tears at the depart- 
ure of Mrs. Souther, the gentle saint and poet as 
well. Mrs. Farmer was most deeply interested in 
God's way of leading this sufferer through the val- 
ley and river of death. One day, when on the very 
rim of the Eternal, Mrs. Souther had a revealing 
of the Unseen. It was one of those kindly and 
most loving unfoldings which the heavenly Father 
is wont to give to the spiritual eye, if the courage 
and power of the departing one can thereby be in- 
creased or the willingness to stay be established. 
In the strength of this "Beautiful Vision," as she 
called it, Mrs. Souther tarried several weeks, and 
then was received into the gates. Her niece pre- 



421 

faced the story of the revelation with a word : " It 
was a great disappointment to dearest auntie to 
find that she must stay when she was so near 
home; but she has been perfectly resigned, willing 
to suffer, to wait, to endure, until her Saviour says 
come. I will enclose in her own words the account 
of her Beautiful Vision: — 

"At first, I saw a brilliant sunset, from which 
emanated the most dazzling rays. The disc was 
beginning to disappear, when a whispering lip 
said, 'It is an emblem of the Sun of Righteous- 
ness.' Over dark, turbid water was a bridge, 
which extended from the sun to the place where I 
stood. Gradually the sunset and the bridge faded, 
and a high, dark archway appeared. Through this 
arch I saw a plank, very narrow, extending out, 
out, out, over the deep waters; and at the far-off 
end I beheld innumerable angels. There was a 
great white gate, which seemed to be the pearly 
gate, at each side of which stood cherubim. It 
was ajar, and, oh! the glory that was revealed. 
Truly the eye has not seen, nor the ear heard, nei- 
ther hath entered the heart of man the things which 
God has prepared for them that love him. But 
God has revealed them unto us by his spirit. Just 
at the archway upon the plank stood the Saviour, 
with hands extended; but he said to me: 'Suffer a 
little longer. I have work for you to do. But, 
when I say, Come, you will enter this dark arch- 
way; and, taking my hand, you will be led in 
safety across this narrow plank and through the 
pearly gate to the bosom of your God.' ' 



422 

After the departure Mrs. Farmer wrote: — 

"My dear Mir a, — My heart is full of grief. No 
words can express it. A little message, only four 
lines, tells me the dear, precious saint, Mrs. 
Souther, went to God on Wednesday morning, May 
4, 1870. The poor little body was laid away on 
Friday, and I all unconscious of the sorrow that 
was to envelope me. On Tuesday night I slept but 
little, and was planning all night for her coming to 
Dr. Taylor as a patient. I talked with doctor 
about her in the evening. He thought he could 
increase her comfort, and maybe give permanent 
relief. And yet in all those hours no pitying 
angel told me he had been commissioned to bear 
her to the skies. The intelligence stunned me. 
It seems now as if I must be dreaming. God only 
can tell what she has been to me. Weak, suffering 
as she was, yet I have leaned upon her. We were 
one in spirit in our intense sufferings. But, 
dear Mira, God has dismissed her; and now I must 
cover her grave with all the beautiful things that 
were hers in life, and my undying love for her will 
keep them fresh forever." 

It seemed to Mrs. Farmer a gracious favor of her 
Father's love when Peter Cooper made a special call 
upon her. Professor Farmer and his daughter had 
met him, but the feebleness of the wife prevented. 
He came, and brought with him the memorial of 
Mrs. Cooper, for whom his grief was then in its 
freshness. 

"Mrs. Cooper," wrote Mrs. Farmer after the in- 



42 3 

terview, "was a treasure to him indeed for fifty-six 
years. She loved to do good as he does ; and, when 
he spoke of her, he said, '/ have lost my guiding 
star. ' " 

In July Mrs. Farmer and her daughter accom- 
panied Professor Farmer from New York to Albany. 
From that point they went by carriage to Saratoga. 
Her letters will journalize the interests of the little 
party. To Mrs. Hanaford she dates her latest 
letter from 69 West 38th Street, July 10, 1870: — 

"The Lord bless Phoebe, servant of a church at 
New Haven, is my daily prayer; and, if my steps 
were turning to your home, how thankful I should 
be! But, if God wills, we leave to-morrow for 
Albany. We are in that position to-day, darling, 
where it is impossible to plan for to-morrow. The 
reason of our going from home instead of toward it 
is that a telegraph line between Albany and Sara- 
toga needs examination. Mr. Farmer tried to evade 
the job and the journey, but he could give no bet- 
ter reason than that his wife wanted to go home. 
You know, dear, that in business the wife is not of 
much account, anyway. I am afraid, therefore, that 
we shall not see you until the meeting of the Scien- 
tific Association in August. We shall come back 
to Albany with our team; and then Mr. Farmer 
goes to the Hoosac Tunnel, as he expects the priv- 
ilege of lighting, it by electricity. I did want to 
visit you now, but, while I feel that God is guiding, 
I can have no wish to choose paths. It may be he 
has a work for me to do among the people I shall 



4 2 4 

meet. My feebleness is an open door to every heart. 
How much the suffering invalid can do for Jesus! 
In this way only, perhaps, can I show forth his 
glory. Pray for the suffering but happy Mabelle." 

July 1 8 she dates a letter at Templeton, Mass., 
three hours' ride by rail to Pilgrim's Rest: "The 
ride has been delightful. We are obliged to go 
slowly, so there has been nothing but pleasure in 
the trip," 

July 21. "My dear Childien, — You will be 
thankful to receive a letter dated once more in the 
City of Witches. We arrived yesterday, and came 
directly to brother Henry. Here we remain until 
our own Pilgrim's Rest is in condition to receive 
us. It seems as if a miracle had been performed in 
me, as I look back upon the grave that has been 
ever open before me so long. I do not know what 
the sweet Christ is to do with me; but I am every 
day adjusting myself to the new harness, and say 
often, 'Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth.' Do you 
know how glorious this daily life of mine is? 
How can you know it, dear children? Yet of all 
the friends who love me none understand me better 
than you." 

Aug. 15, 1870. "My dear Mrs. Derby, — My 
health has greatly increased under the treatment at 
Dr. Taylor's; and I am more comfortable than I 
have been for years. He is hopeful that I shall be 
quite well, though never strong. Our dear Mrs. 
Hanaford called while I was in New York, and I 
was delighted to see her always pleasant face look- 



4^5 

ing brighter than ever. She was not apparently 
worn with her many cares, and a useful future is 
before her. Mr. Farmer is now in Washington, 
but Sarah is with me." 

The professor was called to Washington to test a 
new telegraphic line, and these duties were re- 
quired of him during the week of the Scientific 
Association. The always acquiescent wife wrote : 

"God only knows, dear Mrs. Hanaford, how dis- 
appointed I am not to be with you at the meeting. 
But I do not know of any electrician in America 
who has instruments delicate enough to make the 
required tests besides Mr. Farmer, and for this 
reason no one could take his place. It may be, 
too, that this is the God-provision for our return to 
Dr. Taylor's. I have faith that God will provide 
all that he sees we need. If we had lived only 
for ourselves, we should have constant means at 
command. But I grow more and more thankful 
that he gave us hearts to do just as we have done." 

The spring of 1871 found her among the "Shut- 
ins," because of the exceeding ruggedness of the 
March winds : — 

" My ever dear Mary Webber, — I would like to 
tell you of Carleton } s silver wedding; but you must 
come to Birdie for the particulars. I was here, and 
upon my pillows; and yet, as truly as if it had 
been bodily presence, I was one of the guests. 
Moses and Sarah had a miraculous escape from sud- 
den death on their way to the depot. The horses 
ran, and I cannot think of it with any degree of 



426 

composure even now. God was good to spare them. 
I know your prayers will be going up to God to- 
morrow in behalf of Sumner. May he have wisdom 
from above and strength to do his whole duty! I 
fear for his life; and, if the effort does not cost the 
country that, I shall have renewed cause for thank- 
fulness. I feel as Anna Shipton did, that, 'If God 
can't help us, nobody can."' 

Another letter to Mary Webber is a foregleam of 
Rosemary: — 

"My love for and interest in children generally, 
makes me desire to see them gathered into my own 
household. But this must be denied me. The 
little sinless lamb that tarried with me but a day 
opened every fountain of sympathy in my heart for 
all the weeping Rachels. Our darling little Lillie, 
too, has always been a connecting link between me 
and the bereaved. If ever I thanked God for any- 
thing, it is for their translation, and for the peace- 
ful fruits of it blossoming in my own soul. I bless 
God for every gift that has crowned my life, but 
most of all for the trials which have led me to the 
Source of all blessing." 

The allusion to the interests of children in the 
preceding letter will make the following practical 
effort for their happiness and health apt at this 
point, though the letter is of late date. It was 
written to Margaret Merritt : — 

"I am helping to brighten some whose lots are 
harder than mine. I am very much interested in 
the Fresh Air Fund of Boston, and am trying to 



427 

find homes where some of the pooi little waifs can 
be sent for two weeks. I have found a place for 
two girls who are very tired, also for two little 
girls under ten years of age. They are coming 
next week, and I trust I shall be able to say 
'Come ' to a good many more. My heart is in the 
work, and it is one that I love." 

. In the early autumn of 1871 came a joy to her 
heart that she had not known in years. She went 
to the home of her birth at Berwick: — 

''''Dear Chislon,— How pleased you will be to 
know that I shall take back with me photographs 
of my childhood's home! You will want to look at 
the windows where my baby face looked out upon 
this beautiful world. It is not possible for me to 
stop thinking in Berwick. I never lived so fast 
and so much as in this visit. Thank God for these 
days." 

To Mrs. Olive Perkins, after her visit to Berwick 
and Great Falls: "My little visit to Great Falls 
was one I shall always delight to recall. It was a 
source of untold pleasure to see your dear old 
father, and find him looking so well, and to see how 
gently time was dealing with your good sister Mary 
as well as with yourself. If your father lives, I 
shall go to Great Falls again, if only to look at his 
beautiful face. Old friends are dear, and tears of 
thankfulness fill my eyes at the thought of being 
remembered by those I have loved so long and 
well." 

No wonder that, in the delights of the increased 



428 

vitality of this year of a thousand new blessings, 
she set her seal to her Father's love, and said: — 

"I joyfully add my testimony to those who have 
gone up through much tribulation that, since I first 
learned to look above for light, there has been no 
hour so dark as to shut away the face of my 
risen Lord and Saviour." 



XXXIII. 



CONFESSION OF FAITH. 



MAY 5, 1872, Lord's Day, the entire family 
made a public confession of faith, and be- 
came church members. The central thought of 
Mrs. Farmer's life and conversation was Christ. 
"If one loves God," she wrote, "and works out the 
Life, I do not mind by what name he is called. I 
bid every one God-speed who saves souls." Her 
faith was so simple and childlike that, like George 
Herbert, she would have called the sweeping of a 
room divine. She lived Christ as naturally as she 
breathed, and the greatest beauty of her religion 
was the unconsciousness that she was doing and 
saying holy things. Her cousin Fannie (now Mrs. 
Heywood), when but a child, went with a company 
of bright people into the summer fields of Boscawen 
to gather mosses. It was an hour of peculiar 
beauty ; and the mosses, when arranged, were a mar- 
vel of attraction to the young eyes, accustomed to 
life in Boston. When the child exclaimed that she 
never had seen anything so beautiful before, Mrs. 
Farmer caught at the words instinctively, and said: 
"And everything in life will be just as beautiful, 
if you only think so. It depends on how you look 



43Q 

at things." That expression was really an epit- 
ome of herself. Her birthright thought, twined, 
braided, blended, with every inch of her being, con- 
stantly evolved or re-created within her and around 
her the atmosphere of the skies. She lived this 
daily atmosphere herself, and brought others into 
it. Yet she was never an interior soul. Madame 
Guyon would not have impressed her. Thomas 
Bromley would have been figurative. Fenelon 
would never have won her into a nunnery. She 
read Fenelon often. She went through with some 
of Madame Guyon's pages; but she put her glean- 
ings from them upon the wheels of her energies, 
and their silences became her speech. 

Sitting one day with a young relative, who was 
folding her first-born in her arms, Mrs. Farmer 
asked her if she had ever made a soulful consecra- 
tion to the Lord. An honest negative was the re- 
sponse. "But you are now a mother, and I do not 
know how a mother dare be consciously out of 
Christ." The words had their import; and, when 
a little later the young mother's arms were empty 
and the cradle put away, they came back with a 
newer power, and the step into Christ was dis- 
tinctly taken. 

It is singular that the prayerful and divinely 
energetic household of Mrs. Farmer did not until 
1872 add their signatures to any church register. 
From the hour of the wedding vows it had been a 
home in which God was unhesitatingly honored. 
"The dear Jesus," she wrote, "was the guest 
whom we desired to honor." 



43i 

May i, 1872, she wrote to Mrs. Pierpont Ham- 
mond, Eliot : — 

"My dear Sister Lizzie, — We three are to unite 
with the Crombie Street Church next Sunday, 
May 5. Is it possible for you and dear mother 
to be here? I want you to come, even if you go 
back Monday morning. It is forty years since the 
church was organized, and the services will be very 
interesting. To us it will be one of the eventful 
days of our lives. It is much to be thankful for 
that we are all three going forth together. Tell 
dear mother she must come if it be possible." 

To Mrs. Soule Mrs. Farmer wrote the experience 
of the day, and alluded to the vision of the crown, 
already given in these pages : — 

" My precious Friend, — Yesterday I was carried 
to Crombie Street Church; and husband, myself, 
and Sarah made a public confession of our faith in 
Christ. It was a precious day to us all. I am too 
much prostrated to tell you more about it ; but the 
dear sainted one, who held in his angel hand a 
crown for my unworthy head, was with us at the 
table of our Lord. The church was beautifully 
decorated, and the flowers were sent to my cham- 
ber when I was brought into it. This precious 
bouquet from the communion table I send you to 
put upon the sacred grave, and the angels will 
watch over it. God bless you all." 

This confession by no means limited her. The 
church was not printed rules to her; but the step 
was an increase of strength to her spiritual life, 



432 

and added to her fellowship with the saints. Very 
sincerely did she tell out her own life in some ad- 
vice which she gave at that date to a clergyman : — 

" Let your whole aim, brother, be to save souls, 
and not to add members to your church. Never, 
in all your parish labors, lose sight of this. Wear 
the whole armor until you go home to God." 

A young woman in spiritual darkness, perhaps 
carelessness, came under her direct influence, and 
told her: — 

"For several years, dear Mrs. Farmer, my church 
relations have been unsatisfactory; and I have 
grown distrustful and cold, and perhaps worse. 
The Christian words, from none more than your- 
self, quicken again my spiritual life. I rejoice 
greatly that the thoughts and truths you have 
spoken to me will be my daily bread, and make me 
earnest again." 

Another young person just entering the fold said: 

" Dear Mrs. Farmer, — I really think your letter 
gave me more faith than I ever possessed. Oh, if 
I can only be the kind of Christian that people will 
know me as one by a mere look at me! If you had 
a friend, and you were anxious to see a change in 
her, tell me how you would influence her? Talk- 
ing is not the safest way, and yet I have so many 
opportunities to speak. Sometimes I fail through 
fear of talking the wrong thing, or else of saying 
the right thing at the wrong time. It is hard, this 
trying to do good. You are so good you can an- 
swer me in the right way." 



433 

She developed her idea of Christ life as more than 
creed and profession in a letter to a man and his 
wife whose faith had been questioned, and whose 
church standing had thereby suffered reproach : — 

"My dear Children, — The letter which Sarah has 
just received from you appeals so touchingly to my 
heart that I cannot help writing to assure you that 
I. deeply sympathize with you in your church expe- 
riences. But do not let it be a trouble to you. 
Make it a stepping-stone to a higher and better 
life. If God be with you, what does it matter 
whether your religious views coincide with others 
or not? When you come down to the river of 
death, how different these matters of creed will 
look to you! Standing, as I have often done, be- 
tween two worlds, God has taught me that doubting 
will never tend to soul growth. Now, I want you 
to feel that God, and not Pastor W., has assigned 
you your present place. . If you are shut out of 
Pastor W.'s church, you are not shut out of God's 
heart. There, dear children, you will live forever. 
God has in store for you a deeper, richer blessing, 
that can be perfected only through this trial. Try 
all you can not to vex and starve your souls on 
creeds. They are unsatisfying to the heart that is 
hungering and thirsting after God. When we meet 
him face to face, we shall not have to answer 
whether we believe in an actual or legendary 
Adam, or if this beautiful world were made be- 
tween Monday and Saturday. All we shall need in 
that hour is the sense of washed robes and the 
'Come, ye blessed.' 



434 

"Each soul must act for itself. 'Come out, and 
be separate,' indicates a dividing line. I see 
Christians all about me doing things which are 
wrong for me, but I cannot say it is wrong for 
them. God is their judge, and to him must they 
answer in their hour of judgment." 

With the Crombie Street Church of Salem, Mrs. 
Farmer remained associated as long as she lived, 
though her residence was never afterward in that 
city. The call to Newport broke up the home-life 
in Salem. 



XXXIV. 

1872 THE ISLAND HOME, NEWPORT I 88 I. 

THE truest way to reveal the story of the "Island 
Home," as Mrs. Farmer designated the New- 
port cottage which God gave unto her in 1872, and 
for the next nine years, will be to copy the news- 
paper statement, or summary, when the family fin- 
ished its stay in the city. If no more were uttered 
than the following editorial, not a heart that knew 
and loved the family but could fill out the pages, 
and understand how her name and kindness im- 
pressed the city: — 

"Professor Moses G. Farmer and family leave 
the Torpedo Station to-day and Newport as well, to 
the regret of the representatives of the Government 
and of many friends in this city. Professor 
Farmer arrived at the Torpedo Station in October, 
1872, intending to remain six months as electri- 
cian. It was found, however, that his services 
were necessary to the success of the Station, and he 
was induced to remain and aid in its growth and im- 
portance. Commander E. O. Matthews, U.S.N.,was 
in charge of the island at that time. Professor Far- 
mer has witnessed the remarkable advancement of 
the science of torpedo warfare; and during his 



436 

stay the Station has grown in every sense of the 
word. The electrical laboratory, the new brick 
machine shop, the chemical laboratory, and other 
buildings have been erected since he went to the 
island. Owing to poor health, Professor Farmer 
has not taken such an active part in his department 
for the past three years as formerly ; and of late he 
has been designated as the consulting electrician. 
His wise counsels and extended knowledge of elec- 
tricity have been of inestimable value to the Gov- 
ernment, and there is not now nor has there been 
an instructor or officer at the Station who was not 
willing to acknowledge deep obligations to Professor 
Farmer for the interest which he has taken in the 
matter. He has aided instructors and officers in 
every possible way, and has taken a commendable 
pride in the growth of the Station. The family 
goes direct from Newport to Eliot, Me., the home 
of Mrs. Farmer, where a visit will be made, after 
which they go to Dansville, N. Y., where the win- 
ter will be spent. Professor Farmer will take an 
active part in the management of the United States 
Electric Light Company of New York, of which he 
is the consulting electrician, and will give a por- 
tion of his time to the study of the distribution of 
power by electricity. The family will probably re- 
turn to Newport next summer, and it is possible 
that this city may finally be their permanent resi- 
dence. Newport sustains a great loss in the de- 
parture of Professor Farmer and his family. Many 
homes have been cheered by the presence of Miss 






437 

Farmer, a most estimable lady, who devoted over 
half her time, while in Newport, to aiding the un- 
fortunate, and leading them to a higher and a better 
life. Acting under the advice of her honored par- 
ents, she has visited homes where poverty and want 
were plainly discernible; and by a wise distribu- 
tion of pecuniary assistance she has been the means 
of aiding hundreds whose wants would never have 
been known but for her Christian visits in the most 
unfrequented parts of the city. No one was taken 
into her confidence. She preferred to go about her 
Christian mission without the knowledge of the 
world. Our boatmen will ever have cause to re- 
member Professor Farmer and his family. Mrs. 
Farmer, although partially an invalid, and rarely 
visiting the city, was the light of many households; 
for she was quick to learn of the misfortunes which 
fall to the lot of all. The best wishes of every in- 
habitant of Newport will go with the family wher- 
ever their lot may be cast." 

The kindly editor gave no fulsome praise. It is 
more than ten years since his pen wrote, and yet 
the name of the Farmers is breathed with gratitude 
by the people who knew the blessedness of their 
helpful words and their generous hands at Newport; 
and tearful eyes read the departure when the saint 
went to her reward. When the time of the New- 
port residence had nearly expired, her pen gave a 
glimpse of the how — God's how — the home was 
originally chosen: — 

"Do you know that my conviction is that our life 



438 

in Newport is for something more than the specific 
calling of Gerrish? This home and work were not 
of our asking or seeking. Gerrish did not come for 
a year after it was open to him, and then only from 
a consciousness of duty. Some circumstances were 
so providential in our decision that I should be 
really afraid to make an effort to go from here un- 
less I was certain God wanted us to depart. Until 
our work is done, we shall have to stay. God will 
hold us. I know that Gerrish's influence is good 
in any place, and only eternity will reveal the ex- 
tent of it. It is the same with Sarah's power. 
We are surrounded now with society, with women 
whose lives for benevolent efforts would poorly com- 
pare with your mother's and mine. If there be any 
good in them, Sarah will discover it; for her life 
is, I am sure, the 'Christ in you,' or, as Paul again 
says, 'hid with Christ in God.' She lives to do 
his will." 

To Mrs. Pray she speaks more about the home: 
" At this Station the torpedoes are made that are 
used in the naval service. An electrician is needed 
to instruct the officers how to use them. They sent 
for Mr. Farmer, offered him a salary, a furnished 
house, a servant, etc. It seemed an opportunity for 
doing good, as well as a place of absolute rest for 
me, and therefore the place to make a well woman 
of me. We accepted the position, retaining our 
house in Salem. They needed the knowledge and 
practical experience Mr. Farmer could give from 
his thirty years of study. The Naval Department 



439 

fully appreciates him, and so does his class of 
twenty officers." 

Her "absolute rest" very clearly defines itself in 
a note of the same date : " Let me ask of you if you 
have anything to give me for the Young Women's 
Fair, to be held at Boston? It is to get a Home 
for homeless girls." And to yet another she ex- 
claims : " I never had such a desire to do good to 
everybody as now. All around me the harvest is 
great, and the laborers are few. Come and see me, 
darling; and together we will do all we can for 
Jesus." 

In the following letter to Mrs. Soule none of us 
will doubt who the woman is "who took a deep in- 
terest in the soldiers" : — 

"My dear Mrs. Soule, — Sarah has a class in the 
Sunday-school; and one of her little girls, eight 
years old, is the daughter of a soldier, and he is 
soon going to live with the great Captain above. 
He has never seen a well day since he came home 
from the war. God lets him live, that others may 
see what grace can do for one of his children. He 
has been almost entirely confined to the house for 
the last two years, and he and his dear little cheery 
wife have supported themselves and managed to 
keep together. She takes in sewing, and he makes 
all kinds of fancy articles. There is a woman 
here who took a deep interest in the soldiers during 
the war, and she still remembers in time of peace 
what they did for her; and she bought for this sick 
soldier a fret saw, and Sarah was present when the 



440 

saw was given to him. I wish I could tell you 
how overjoyed he was that he had got one that was 
his to keep. He had seen it advertised, and 
wanted so much to get one, but could not, as he 
needed all his earnings to keep the wolf from the 
door. The poor fellow had fitted up something to 
take the place of it, but it was very hard and slow 
work to saw through the thinnest board he could 
get. Now, I only wish you could see the beautiful 
work that comes from his hands. The first thins: 
he made with the saw was a little card-case to hang 
up. It has three pockets, and they are riveted to- 
gether after they are glued; and it is just as nicely 
done as can be. This beautiful little thing he 
4 made for the lady who gave him the saw,' and he 
would make her take it. When you visit us, you 
shall go over and see this soldier, unless the Mas- 
ter calls to him; and, if he does, then he will be 
with your own precious soldier husband. 

"This soldier did not give his heart to God until 
recently. He wanted to unite with the church, but 
he was too feeble to go out; and all the members 
went to his home, and so he sat with them at the 
table. Soon it will be the Supper of the Lamb. I 
am asking God to send the Youth' ' s Companion to 
that soldier's children, and I believe he will put it 
into the heart of somebody to do it. A letter has 
just come from Mr. Caldwell; and he writes that 
Mrs. Crockett has laid away the darling little Ella 
at twelve years of age. She has joined her soldier 
father. Oh, that heart-desolated mother, left alone 



441 

to-day! The tears come so fast I cannot guide my 
pencil. Only God can comfort Mrs. Crockett now." 

"My dear Mrs. Pray, — Moses is as busy as ever, 
finding all he can do in the care of the students. 
Sarah devotes her leisure to the study of German. 
I do nothing but learn 'to suffer and be strong.' I 
long, Charlotte, to have Our children know and love 
each other as we do, and I want you and Lottie to 
come to us. Send me a picture of your Willie, 
and one also of that young man who comes to your 
house with his thieving propensity so apparent that 
you cannot fail to see he means mischief. Tell 
him he cannot be your son-in-law unless he will 
promise to believe that a mother-in-law can be an 
angel." 

The home on the island with all its beauty had 
likewise its shadows. Mrs. Farmer became most 
tenderly attached to a beautiful young wife, whose 
father was an ex-governor, and whose husband was 
of rank in the navy. But beauty and loveliness of 
voice and character did not save her, and she left 
an agony of sorrow when her sudden but final 
good-by was given. "She lifted both of her beauti- 
ful hands, laid them in those of her husband, 
smiled once more upon him, and then her sweet 
eyes closed forever." 

" My dear Mrs. Webber, — I do not know words 
to tell as I want to of this week of agony. My 
hair actually turned gray during the time, and I 
shall never think of it again without clasping my 
hands in pain." 



442 

Any one who ever came into Mrs. Farmer's sym- 
pathy will not doubt the intensity of her interest in 
that hour, which seemed like a calamity. 

If she wept for those who departed, she smiled 
when the living came into the overshadowing of her 
home : — 

"Our dear Mr. Beaman is here to attend the 
Channing Memorial. He was one of Dr. Chan- 
ning's parishioners. Mr. Beaman is lovelier than 
ever. His hair is pure white, and his face is glori- 
fied beyond expression in human language I do 
not think he ever lost an opportunity in his life to 
say a pleasant thing of an individual if he knew it." 

A few years later one of her correspondents said 
to her: "When the newspapers reported the depart- 
ure of Mr. Beaman, your saintly old pastor, I felt 
like writing to you. As he crossed heaven's thresh- 
old it was to him an abounding entrance. You 
must have great peace in remembering his fellow- 
ship. Elizabeth wrote me that she never forgot 
his call upon Jean, 'for her dead mother's sake.' 
How very like him!" 

In 1874 came the hour of transition for the dear 
mother, whom everybody loved. Life is well 
worth all it costs, if one can gather as much love 
into it as did Mrs. Shapleigh. 

"My sweet saint of a mother has often said, 'The 
death of a Christian is the least of all afflictions.' 
I could not but think of this when I compared your 
trial to mine; for, O my precious friend, your dear 
letter found me in the furnace seven times heated. 



443 

My dear, beloved mother is with Jesus, and her 
children refuse to be comforted. He took her to 
himself on the 22d of October. I know whom I 
have believed, but only the motherless can tell how 
hard it is to give her up. Pity and pray for your 
loving friend, Mabelle." 

It was just at daybreak when this woman of 
gentle life went away. A few hours of suffering, 
and then, resting her face on her hand, she said, 
" I am better now, dear " ; and the eyes closed, and 
the smile of eternal peace rested on the face. The 
funeral service was in her own pleasant parlor, and 
yet, quiet as was the service, three hundred people 
gathered at her gate; for had she not been as a 
mother to them all? And, as the lid was lifted at 
the edge of the grave, one young girl, known by 
name to nobody, bowed over the peaceful face, 
weeping and kissing the lips that could give no 
response. Why she so loved her could not be told; 
but we all knew that somebody, in an hour of dis- 
tress or perplexity, had received the counsel and 
help that the old heart never failed to impart. 

In the garden, on the tall obelisk, is written — 

OLIVE TOBEY, 

WIFE OF 

RICHARD SHAPLEIGH. 

, BORN JULY 1 6, I794. 

DIED OCT. 22, 1874. 

AGED 80. 

" With Christ, which is far better." 



444 

A month later, when the freshness of her loss 
was softening into that quiet acquiescence with 
divine love which follows all our griefs, Mrs. Far- 
mer wrote : — 

"My dear Mrs. Hanafoid, — The death of my 
dear old saint of a mother has wrought a great 
change in me. So much has gone out of my life, 
it seems strange that I still live on. I was but 
seventeen when my father went up to the House on 
High, leaving four children younger than myself, — 
the oldest twelve, the youngest two. From that 
hour until my mother joined him I had a care of 
her which I never laid down. Now I do not know 
what to do with myself. I feel as one shut out 
from my own home. Yet I am resting securely in 
that precious love which won me even from her, 
the dearest and the best of mothers. The dear God 
be praised that she did not lose a daughter, but 
gained a son, when I left her home for my own, — a 
son who has done everything in his power to make 
her life happy, and one in whom she had great 
comfort. It is beautiful to think of the love and 
respect that Moses and she had for each other, and 
that they expressed it by deed and word at every op- 
portunity. In these days of so many trifling words 
about mothers-in-law, I turn with thanksgiving to 
her; for unto the husbands of her four daughters 
she became another mother. Children and flowers 
were something that came to her direct from the 
Father's hand, and I have sometimes thought that 
she would not be happy even in heaven without 



445 

them. You shall have the picture of her earthly 
abode, the home where I was married; but the 
charm of it is gone away forever." 

And yet not forever, for the fragrance of Mrs. 
Shapleigh's life will be a consciousness as long as 
the memories of her continue; and without doubt 
the mantle which fell at that time upon Mrs. 
Farmer gave an increase of power in the multiplied 
ways by which she was meeting needs among the 
richer and the poorer. Sometimes she found more 
need in homes of beauty and money than she dis- 
covered in the externally scanty households. She 
realized often that all depended upon the soul 
furnishings. 

" I was greatly pleased with your thought about 
God' 's pansies; and, when you described the sweep 
of hailstones, I wondered where they hid their little 
faces. The sweetest saints on earth are those 
who bow their heads, and let the storms of life 
sweep over them, as my dear, saintly mother did. 
Then, when the storm is over, they look up and 
smile. They are like the bow in the cloud to God. 
No rainbow in the east was ever more beautiful 
than my mother's soul." 

Among the letters of Mrs. Dix there is an ex- 
pression which shows how truly she appreciated the 
days that were passing at the Island Home : — 

"You live, very dear Mrs. Farmer, in too big a 
world for me to keep trace of but few of your paths 
and steps. But I seem to know by a little what 
a great deal means. I see Professor Farmer at the 



446 

morning prayers. I hear his pleasant voice for us 
all; and so I know you cannot but be in Eden, even 
if it is not your old Salem home. The Lord has 
given me, in your family, friends indeed. When 
my Hervey fell dead on the battle ground, you 
stretched out your arms; and you have never for- 
gotten me, even for a day." 

No, dear woman, hearts of God never forget. 
Memory is too divine to lose its grip when God en- 
riches it. As a comfort when Mrs. Farmer was 
lonely because her mother had gone away, Mrs. Dix 
told her of a visit to her own dear mother's last 
rest : — 

"How beautiful is Gray's 'Elegy'! and how 
many times I have seemed to lay my head 'among 
the rude forefather's,' rather than in the artistic 
cemetery where my final resting-place is designed, 
and must be, because my husband lies there. Last 
summer Mary and I went six miles from Chelms- 
ford to the grave in which my mother was laid forty 
years ago. It was so far from haunts of business, 
so quiet among surroundings of natural growth, the 
trees and the bushes of God's acre, that we both 
felt as if we would like to have our latest rest 
there. It was a comfort to us, and seemed to bring 
my blessed mother nearer to me than at any time 
since she died. She was a saint, and many are the 
memories of her heart and voice. I thought I 
would tell you this of the peaceful grave of the 
blessed woman I call my mother." 

The wonderful beauty of the Newport home, its 



447 

freshness of sea, its delights of society, she shared 
with prodigal love. One could scarcely tell if it 
were bracing breaths of the water or the cheer of her 
house that imparted courage and power. The fol- 
lowing is a letter of invitation dated at her island 
house : — 

"My dear Friend, — I know by blessed (?) expe- 
rience that, when my inventive husband gets an 
idea into his head, there is no rest or peace for him 
until he discovers if there be any life or breath 
in it. And Goethe says, 'He who can appi'eciate 
merit has the germ of it within his own soul.' 
Admit this, and you will see, too, that I am an 
inventive genius myself, and that while I cannot 
follow out into the broad way of thought him who is 
a blessing to the world, and all the world to me, 
still I can drink at the wayside stream, keeping 
in sight all the time my life guide and mentor. 
A year or two ago a man who died near Boston 
left money to found a hospital for the tired souls 
who find their bodies a burden, and long to get 
away from them. This is very good, but the num- 
ber increases so rapidly that something must be done 
to thin them out. I propose to lend a hand, and 
cure all I can before that hospital is ready to re- 
ceive them. Who knows but I may turn it to an- 
other and better purpose? I cannot do this with- 
out a subject, and, that leads me to write you, and 
see if you are willing to sacrifice yourself, on the 
said altar. 

"You remember I once told you that there is, 



448 

surely healing power in my Funnygraph [a cute 
scrap-book] ; and now I want to demonstrate the 
fact that medicine is in it, if no money can be 
made out of it. So come, and stay until I have time 
to kill you or cure you. My charge will be the 
same either way. If I send you off with colors 
flying, I shall think I have a mission, and am no 
more worthy to be counted among the superfluous 
women. Having discovered that there is some- 
thing for me to do, let me see if I can help you out 
of your drag? Sure I am that you will not rest 
and be strong where you are. Come down to this 
God-given Island Home. Its restful quiet does 
wonders. A sick child has just gone from us with 
a healthful recruiting. You have got your candle 
lighted at both ends, and there will be a grand ex- 
plosion soon. If you wait until you get clear out to 
sea, I may not be able to pull you back; for I have 
constant work to hold on to my Moses. You are 
in that sleepless state which comes from excesses of 
brain work. You have no right to expect to sleep, 
even with Dr. Colby's night-cap on, while you per- 
sist in reading philosophy, metaphysics, to say 
nothing of listening to those lectures on Chris- 
tianity." 

When another was coming, not for the beauty of 
Newport life or for the ocean and its wonderful 
wine of ceaseless joy and delight, but for a day or 
two of holy communion, she wrote : — 

"I can hardly keep from clapping my hands, like 
a little happy child, in the thought of seeing you in 



449 

my dear God-given Island Home, over which the 
angels fold their wings in loving tenderness, and 
where my precious Saviour is an ever-welcome and 
honored guest. How sweet will be our commun- 
ion with him! Then I am going to my Eliot 
home, if I can. Our sister Rose [wife of her 
beloved brother, Henry C. Shapleigh] has a dying 
desire to see me once more; and Sarah will go with 
me, if I am able for the journey." 

To her "dear Charlotte'' of her youthful days 
she pours out her lovingness for "my Moses." 

"We cannot go away at present until Captain 
Jeffers has been here, unless it be a case of life or 
death, as Mr. Farmer has the entire charge of the 
electrical department, and must be at hand to 
say what is needful to be done. A very nice build- 
ing has been finished for husband's especial use. 
He will fit it up with instruments, as though he 
expected to stay at this Station forever. He says 
it will be so easy for some one to learn the use of 
the instruments after they are all contrived and 
adjusted to the work they will be expected to do. 
This is like him exactly. He will do all this, and 
then leave the ground for another to occupy; and, 
when another has performed some wonderful thing 
to astonish the world, he will look quietly on, 
and rejoice in the success, without taking to him- 
self one particle, of credit for all the brains he has 
put into the work since his connection with the in- 
stitution. O Charlotte dear, there must be an 
unfading crown of glory awaiting this Moses on the 



45o 

other side! But, if so it please God, may it be 
long before the Master shall bid him come." 

The records of personal efforts for the well-being 
of people at Newport (and other places as well) were 
never made in family books or in public prints; 
but it is peculiarly interesting to find among the 
thousands of letters which accumulated from her 
mails the gratitude of the needy. She found work 
places for servants. She opened doors of study in 
art and literature. She helped people in hard rent 
days. No phase of pinch and hardship but at 
some time she balanced it with her love. Close at 
hand is a letter from her Newport table : — 

"Mrs. Fanner: Dear Madam, — I write to tell 
you how much I thank you for your kind interest in 
my sister and myself. I feel as if you were my 
mother. If I write anything out of the way, you 
will overlook it as a kind mother would a child. 
Sister is delighted with the place you got for her. 
She never had such a situation in her life before. 
Please accept my humble thanks a thousand times 
for my sister; for, when you were good to her, you 
were good to me. She has been everything to me 
since we lost our mother; and I hope, with the 
assistance of God, we shall never do anything to 
incur the displeasure of such a benevolent friend. 
I will tell you a little about myself. Husband 
gets his ten dollars a week. We put away two 
dollars and seventy-five cents for rent. The re- 
mainder I have got to be very economical with. 
Nevertheless, we do nicely, thank God. My hus- 



45i 

band is a good and faithful workman. I am not 
praising him, but saying what he deserves. The 
children, — well, it is hard to go over another per- 
son's children, but they are good to me and loving. 
Sometimes I feel very bad. I will tell you why. 
Their father is an over-indulgent parent, and 
thinks they never ought to be spoken to. You 
know a child has to be taught right from wrong, 
and brought up in the fear of God. There are 
times when some little difficulty will arise; but 
I do as my mother taught me, — offer myself to 
the Almighty. The little boy is very good. He 
can do ever so many errands. He goes to his 
church, and I have him study one or two chapters 
in his catechism every day. The little girl is a 
very good child, but she has an obstinate little 
temper. She says her prayer nights and morn- 
ings, and says it very plain and correct. She 
prays for her mamma every time; but she will have 
it that I am her mamma, and the mamma who is 
dead is Johnnie's. If it is the will of God to 
leave us. all together, I shall be glad. I hope you 
will not be tired of my letter. I have given you 
the same account I would give my mother. May 
God bless you," 

Besides a vast deal of purely mission work in 
Newport, she took upon her during those years a 
very deep interest in prison life. She could gain 
a knowledge only by books and correspondence; 
but she found thereby opportunities to distribute 
reading matter in quantities to homes, reforma- 



452 

tories, and the like, and she quickly made some 
resorts understand that she had soulfully regarded 
them. We find, among the letters she received, a 
query which came from a Home for Released Pris- 
oners : "We are often asked by our Prison Band 
what led Mrs. Farmer of Newport to become so 
deeply interested in our prison mission and work?" 
We do not know the answer; but she evidently 
asked in her return-letter about punishments in 
jails, of the "offences that must come," and the 
official wisely said: — 

"No, Mrs. Farmer, birch rule is never Love : it 
is always Law. If the lash is used for incorrigi- 
bleness, it will soon be used on defenceless women 
and insane men. If love and labor combined can- 
not reach men, brutality will not. The trouble is 
people do not feel enough in their own hearts of 
God's power to save themselves to believe it can 
save such men as we have among us." 

Mother Dix, anxious lest Mrs. Farmer's multi- 
plied Newport labors should distract and exhaust 
her, asked: "Does not the constant hearing and 
dwelling upon so many miseries unfit us for duties 
that come thick and fast? And how can your 
heart of love and kindness bear up under all these 
dreadful things ? " But Mother Dix could not but 
commit herself in the very same breath as in most 
perfect harmony and kinship with Mrs. Farmer; 
for her confession is, "I treat always any poor 
souls who look to me for a kind word as thought- 
fully and well as if they were my friends, and none 



453 

of them but must feel all the better for hearing my 
voice; and, when I can give help substantially, I 
do it, even if it has to be done in secret." 

At this time Mrs. Farmer met with a poem 
written by a prisoner, and given in manuscript to 
Mrs. C. S. Whitney of New York, a woman de- 
voted to God and the distressed. Such was Mrs. 
Farmer's interest in the verses that she ordered a 
large edition for prison distribution. Mrs. Whit- 
ney wrote to her about the labors of love and life 
and her prison experiences : — 

"I keep house, and do most of my own work, 
but am so deeply interested in suffering humanity 
that I cannot rest without reaching a helping hand. 
This burning love of Christ in me goes out after 
all the unfortunate. The prison work of which you 
ask has the strongest fascination of any. I did 
know M. J. F. at the time he wrote the verses for 
me. He was in our jail. One of the finest men 
of our city was a prisoner for six years. I had a 
pleasant talk with him, last night, of our first ac- 
quaintance, and how the dear Lord saved and ad- 
vanced him. One man whom I tried to rescue 
gave me much anxiety; but I followed him with 
prayers and loving words, and last winter I heard 
that he was saved through the efforts of Charles A. 
Bunting, of New York. One sows, and another 
reaps; but we shall rejoice together when we get 
home. Do you know Mrs. Barney, of Providence? 
I have received letters from her and from Professor 
Ames. I am glad to know of you, and to become 



454 

acquainted, and shall wish to hear oftener from 
you." 

Mrs. Farmer's interest in prisons continued as 
long as she lived. 

It revealed itself constantly in the distribution 
of books and papers ; and one of the pleasant labors 
since she went away has been to gather the papers 
and leaves which she had designed to send to the 
Western prisons, and to remember in her name the 
people who may be won to rectitude by love. 



XXXV. 



NOBLE WOMANHOOD. 



IT is a singular stride from the glance at prisons 
and prisoners, with which we closed the last 
chapter, to the White House and its august occu- 
pants; but the woman of exhaustless efforts pene- 
trated all phases of life and society, and did alike 
to the noble and the simple what came to her as a 
conviction. 

Shortly after Mrs. Hayes's induction to the posi- 
tion of the first lady of the land, Mrs. Farmer read 
an article from the pen of Mary Clemmer, a pro- 
phetic chapter possibly of the effect of noble woman- 
hood manifest in social positions. Allusions were 
made to the simple and really beautiful indepen- 
dence of Mrs. Hayes in matters of dress, arrange- 
ment of her hair, courtesy, etc. Mrs. Farmer read 
the column, and was seized with an irrepressible 
desire to address a letter to the President's wife. 
At that date the two had never met. Mrs. Hayes 
was to Mrs. Farmer only the woman whose name 
for years had been registered with the noble women 
of America who love God and the world well 
enough to labor for true upliftings wherever there 
is a chance. Her strong temperance principles, 



456 

her utter common-sense demeanor, had given Mrs. 
Farmer a general feeling of respect for her char- 
acter. During the term of residence in the White 
House, Mrs Hayes visited the naval station at 
Newport. Great was the soul comfort the two had 
in an hour of fellowship. They sat together, and 
talked of God's inspirations in benevolent works. 

It was very pleasant to Mrs. Farmer's familiar 
friends to rally her on a singular resemblance be- 
tween Mrs. Hayes's face and her own. Every one 
of them who met Mrs. Hayes remarked it. One of 
her correspondents wrote her of an interesting 
hour at Washington, in which this facial fact is 
mentioned : — 

"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — I reached Washington 
Friday evening, and yesterday was one of Mrs. 
Hayes's reception days at the White House. I knew 
nothing of it until, in passing, I saw a great throng 
and many carriages. Seeing Mr. Walter Allen of 
the Boston Advertiser, I hailed him, and learned 
that gentlemen went in ordinary walking suits, and 
that everybody was free to go. I joined the throng, 
and presently was presented to Mrs. Lucy Hayes, and 
also to the wives of every member of the Cabinet. 
Mrs. Hayes was charming. I was delighted, and 
fell in love with her at sight. She was the finest 
and best-looking lady of all those who received. 
Her cheeks were rosy, her complexion good, her 
eyes fine, full, clear, and kindly. "Rah for Mrs. 
Hayes!' say I. And I must tell you that Mrs. 
Hayes is very much like Mrs. Professor Farmer. 



457 

The resemblance is marked and unmistakable. I 
cannot for the life of me tell you what Mrs. Hayes 
wore, save that her hair was brushed smoothly 
back, and is black, and was very simply coiled at 
the back of her head, and fastened with a tortoise 
shell comb. My impression is that her dress was 
rich, but simple. There was a great throng. I 
saw many members of the Cabinet, General Devens, 
Mr. Evarts, and others. 

"The 'season' is very lively. The city is full of 
giddy as well as scheming heads. Last night there 
were several receptions, and many ladies left the 
hotel in very elaborate dress. I like the wide 
streets, the superb views of the Capitol and public 
buildings; but I could not endure much of the 
'society.' The girls already look jaded, and Lent 
will come none too soon to stop this tremendous 
dissipation. 

"I was introduced to a pretty and talkative girl. 
She told me that the Hayes administration was 
awfully prim and dull. She said frankly that she 
wanted Grant again in the chair; for it was ever so 
much more grand and splendid, something like 
a court, and everybody spent money freely. She 
wished Grant was a dictator and in power. She 
supposed it took rather wicked men to run things 
that way, but she didn't care. Why should she? 
She lived in Washington, and wanted that which 
made society lively. These were her very words. 
She was not trying to make fun. She really felt as 
selfish as her speech indicated." 



458 

After an allusion to the supposition of Mary 
Clemmer that Mrs. Hayes might lose the artless, 
self-unconscious bearing which characterized her 
earliest receptions, Mrs. Farmer wrote: — 

"I believe, dear Madam, that you have taken 
with you to the White House principles based on 
God's word, that you possess traits of character 
that can never be separated from your individual 
life without lessening the influence you now have. 
The full extent of the power of a good woman can 
only be measured by eternity. If the years at the 
White House should rob you of this crown of 
womanhood, every true woman in the land will 
feel that we have paid a fearful price for our God- 
given President. I believe God has raised you up 
to restore and redeem the glory of our lost woman- 
hood. Look at the women of to-day, bound hand 
and foot on the altar of fashion and as willing 
victims. To whom shall we turn to lift us from 
this degradation? Where shall we look for the 
woman who can do it? Many a woman is praying 
that God will help you." 

With the true wifely appreciation of the 
strength man acquires when he is sure of the power 
at his right hand, Mrs. Farmer queries : — 

"If a change comes, will not the husband and 
President be first to feel it? Will not his courage 
falter and strength fail if, instead of his tower of 
strength, there be but the broken reed ? " 

And then, the wifely instinct melting into 
motherly love and desire for the lifelong purity of 
the sons, she again reasons : — 



459 

"Bare the arms and the bosom to the gaping 
crowds, and, if the moral support which you have 
always given to your sons be thus withdrawn, who 
will keep them unspotted from the world, and 
guide them safely through the whirlpool of sins by 
which young men are surrounded, and lead them up 
to a manhood without a stain? " 

And the letter closes with the prayer that the 
pure atmosphere of the Western home may be trans- 
ferred to Washington, and the crown of womanhood 
be still undimmed that to her brow was a halo of 
glory. 



XXXVI. 



THE OLD SOUTH. 



A STRANGE chapter is this, but a real one, 
which sandwiches itself into the history of 
the days which Mrs. Farmer lived at the Island 
Home. 

The years 1872-76 were now and again stirred 
with a patriotic and religious interest to save the 
Old South Meeting-house in Boston from destruc- 
tion and desecration. This fervor culminated in 
1876, when the edifice was secured and its perma- 
nency established. 

The history of the old place can be better under- 
stood by a reference to Mary Norton, the wife of 
the Rev. John Norton, first of Ipswich (1636), 
where his old home yet stands, and later of Boston, 
where both minister and wife died and lie buried. 

Mary Norton in 1699 gave the Old South real 
estate "for the erecting of a house for their as- 
sembling themselves together publiquely to wor- 
ship God, . . . and for noe other intent, use, or 
purpose whatsoever." After strenuous and oft- 
baffled legal efforts to change the legacy, the parish 
finally succeeded and 1876, centennial year, the 
property passed legally to other control. When it 



461 

was announced that the church was to be demol- 
ished, and, as Mrs. Farmer remarked facetiously, 
"people could have, if they wished, a brick of it 
to put into their hats," suddenly this excellent, 
devout, and patriotic woman felt the power of God 
come into her; and she was nerved to make the 
exertion to save the house, if she could not keep it 
open for worship. Her friends remonstrated; for 
had she not already been before the public, and 
could not the Old South Church and parish exercise 
its judgment religiously, financially, and secularly? 
But Mrs. Farmer had heard the Voice that but few 
know, and her pen must do its work. She tells the 
story of her effort (which, as she was afterwards 
informed, did actually save the edifice from de- 
struction) in a letter to one of her family, which 
letter, though not earliest in date, we will insert 
first, and follow it by the letters and published 
articles which, Mr. Simmons assured her, proved 
the key-note of the song of deliverance from de- 
struction of that landmark of religion and liberty: 
" Your letter was received several days ago, but 
I have not felt able to answer it. The first hour of 
returning strength shall be given to this labor of 
love. As I laid your letter down upon my bed, 
before a thought had formulated itself, Jesus said 
tome, 'What is that to thee? follow thou me' (John 
xxi. 22). My soul instantly replied: 'Lord: I try 
to follow; and I will. But, dear, precious Saviour, 
give me some sign how long I am to plead with 
those who have power to give thee back thine own?' 



462 

He replied in a voice as distinct as if he had stood 
visibly at my bedside, 'Until the cities be wasted 
without inhabitant, and the houses without man, 
and the land be utterly desolate' (Isaiah vi. 11). 

"One hand I gave to him almost seventeen years 
ago, and asked him to lead me. That hand, 
blessed be God, I have never withdrawn. Do you 
wonder that I instantly readied out the other, and 
asked him to grasp that also, and anchor me for- 
ever? And now, my dear Charles, if the path he 
has marked out for me leads to a martyr's stake or 
to the noose of a gallows, I shall follow it to the 
end. 

"When this question of the preservation of the 
Old South was first brought home to me, I shrank 
with more than my usual timidity from having any 
part or lot in the matter. I knew God needed 
helpers, and I thought of everybody who could aid 
him better than I. Not once did I say, 'Here am 
I: send me." I did not want to go. All the effort 
for him up to Sept. 16, 1876, was the little influ- 
ence I could exert through those who were already 
pledged to the interests of that old Meeting-house. 
But in the stillness of the midnight of September 
16, amid the wildness of a storm then beating 
about my Island Home, I heard his voice, I saw 
his blessed face. When I see him in glory, he will 
not be more real or visible than in the darkness of 
that night. I never expect such views of him 
again until my feet stand upon that shore where I 
shall be forever with him. I never knew till then 



463 

that I could be so near unto him. The sin of in- 
sufficient love to him has often seemed a separation 
from him. But, oh, the glory of that night! I 
nestled upon his bosom, that dear, loving bosom, 
where John, the beloved disciple, rested his head. I 
knew he loved me, poor, unworthy me. I had the 
clearest assurance that I loved him. Then it was 
that he whispered, 'If ye love me, keep my com- 
mandments.^ I said, 'Blessed Saviour, what wilt 
thou have me to do?' Instantly my work was laid 
out before me, and I was ready to enter upon it as 
soon as the day dawned. 

" My first duty was to write to Mr. Johnson and 
his committee. My belief will never be shaken 
that Christ told me to do it, and then helped me 
himself. But for that knowledge of his word, I 
could never have gotten the courage. You know 
me thoroughly enough, Charlie, to say that I must 
have been taken wholly away from myself to do it, 
because I naturally shrink from notoriety; and, in 
doing that thing, I was taking a position where it 
seemed as if I might stand openly before the public, 
and perhaps stand alone. But I knew God was in it, 
and that he would be with me. From that hour I 
began to pray for the conversion of that committee. 
God has promised that he will hear us, and I want 
you to believe it fully. If you could see their 
hearts as God can, I believe you would find them 
as restless as the waves that break into foam on the 
rocks around old Fort Dumpling as I write. May 
God in his grace give them no revelation of mercy 



464 

until they have made him restitution! The Old 
South Meeting-house and the land on which it is 
built is God's. Every hour that it is withheld 
from him only adds to the condemnation of the 
committee. If those men were doing rightly, why 
did God roll such agony upon my spirit? 

" If God had distinctly stated that I only was an- 
swerable for the souls of that committee, I could 
not have had greater spiritual distress. 

"This soul agony has not been confined to the 
committee. The pastor and the parish have also 
been a burden to my soul. But to-day the burden 
is lifting. God is after them. (I say it rever- 
ently.) He is going to bring them to himself. If 
I could only make you see it as I do, what a power 
you would be for him! Every word of yours would 
tell if the scales should fall now from your eyes. 
And they will. God wants to get you down very 
close to him first. And now, dear, do you help 
him. Do not fold your hands, and tell me to be 
quiet, and that God has all eternity to work in. I 
know it, you dear, blessed soul ; but Christ gave 
himself not a ransom for one, but for all. If you 
felt as I do now, you would rush to tell lost souls 
there is a redemption. Something must wake 
Boston. It may be Moody or the songs of Sankey. 
It may be you. That church on the Back Bay is to 
feel the divine power. Dr. Manning says they 
must close the Old South in order to retain their 
identity, and you write that the committee's title 
will be vitiated if it be opened for religious wor- 



4 6s 

ship; but, if my one vote to-day could open that 
Meeting-house, I should do it. I should not hesi- 
tate an hour. God is on the side of the Old South. 
If the committee opened it, you would see how 
quickly light would come out of darkness. Oh, 
the deliverance God would give if they would but 
stand up for Jesus! They could not help taking 
the house with the conditions of restriction; but, 
if they hold it on these terms, c the partaker is on a 
level with the thief.' God have mercy. 

" Look at the history of that dear old house, and 
see if you do not think God had a purpose in its 
salvation? You have scarcely to go back a year to 
see what a wonder-working God he is. You well 
remember the day when the hand of the executioner 
was laid upon it, when even my beloved, whose 
faith and courage had never nagged before, sat at 
my bedside in an utter despair, and said: k We have 
done all we can, dear; but no power on earth can 
save it now. The dear Old South must come 
down.' The tears that filled his precious blue eyes 
were no shame to his manhood, but to his wife they 
seemed a glory forever. 

" k It will not be torn down,' was the answer that 
came at once from my lips. 

ut No man on earth can prevent,' said he. 

" 4 I know that no man can prevent, but God will; 
and I have no more doubt he will hinder its de- 
struction than I have of its standing to-day.' 

ut But, dear, they are tearing it down now, and 
have been at work at it since yesterday.' 



466 

"'Even if they have, that Meeting-house will 
not be torn down.' 

"An hour later a little penciled letter was on its 
way to Mr. Roberts in Boston, and I had done a 

thing for the first time in my life that my Moses 
did not approve. His loving, tender approval had 
always been the day-star of my life through all our 
blessed wedded years. So clearly was God's will 
revealed to me in that hour that I should have writ- 
ten, had I known that Moses would blame me as 
long as he lives. I knew that in eternity he would 
see that what I did was right. I could afford to 
wait. But, better, the blessed soul sees it to-day, 
and is satisfied. 

"Dear Sarah hardly knew which of us to believe, 
and for a while the old Meeting-house was to her 
on the fence. I asked God to help her, and in a 
moment she said, 'Stick to it, mother, and some- 
body will believe you by and by.' Thank God, 
I did stick to it; and the dear, blessed old Meeting- 
house did not come down. The travail of my soul 
was satisfied; and it matters but little who saved 
it, as long as God gets all the glory. And now 
mark its history from beginning to end; and think 
you if God has no higher use in the salvation of 
his own house than to save it for a curiosity 

shop r 

A duplicate of Mrs. Farmer's letter to Mr. 
Roberts is found among her loose papers, and is 
dated June 9, 1876: — 



4-67 

"Mr. J. N. Roberts: 

"Dear Sir, — To you personally I am a stranger, 
and our first meeting face to face will probably be 
at the judgment seat of Christ. That he shall not 
say unto me then, k Ye did it not unto me,' I take 
up my pencil to add one plea more for the preser- 
vation of the Old South. I cannot think that 
Boston deserves this humiliation, which is to-day 
a chapter of her history, as she has allowed this 
precious memorial to be sold under the hammer. 
You may say that we have known for months that 
this would be the fate unless something was de- 
cidedly done to avert it. True; but I judge others 
by myself when I write that we have believed that 
those who have the matter in charge would present 
a plan to save it, and were waiting only to see 
when, where, and how to lend the helping hand. 

"Now I write this to ask, since you have bought 
it to sell again, will you not name your price, and 
allow the 

WOMEN OF OUR COUNTRY 

to become its purchasers? Do not say, No. With- 
out a doubt you can make arrangements with the 
trustees that will allow you to do this, and I think 
that we can also purchase the land. That the trus- 
tees have already expended three hundred thousand 
dollars for the privilege (?) of selling it goes to 
show that its sale for removal was never the inten- 
tion of the donor, and that it never should have 
been done. But, since it has, if the house can be 
saved, it must be, even at the eleventh hour. 



468 

"I enclose some lines in behalf of the dear old 
church. 

"Will you do me the favor to reply by return 
mail, as every hour is precious, since you mean to 
tear down the old church to-day. God only can 
know what a weight will be taken from my heart if 
you can tell me that the hand of the destroyer is 
stayed. 

"Hannah T. S. Farmer. 

"Mrs. Moses G. Farmer." 

A telegram came in response to the letter, a joy- 
ful message to the earnest soul on her suffering 
couch in her Island Home: — 

"Will save Old South if you can collect $50,000 
within six days. "G. W. Simmons & Sons." 

And back went the wire with its freight of joy: — 

"Glory to God in the highest! The dear Old 
South will be saved. The world was made in six 
days. Will send letter by express. 

"H. T. S. Farmer." 

The telegram was followed by a letter: — 
''''Dear Mr. Simmons, — Only God in heaven can 
know what a thrill of joy pervaded my whole being 
this morning when your message came to me, 
freighted with such joyful news. Over and over 
have I said 'Glory to God in the highest. The 
Old South can be saved, and it will be saved." If 
it were possible for me to help you by my presence, 



469 

the wings of the wind would be all too slow to bear 
me to Boston; but I have been confined to my 
chamber almost four weeks, my face swollen and 
my eyes nearly closed. God be praised that my 
reason is spared, and that I have sight enough left 
to tell you with my own hand how thankful I am to 
do one thing more for the Old South! 

" God bless you for giving us six days to work 
in, and now the question must be met instantly, 
How is it best to begin? This settled, a great 
point is gained. Two women on Washington 
Street have pledged $500. The Transcript has 
their names. The Transcript has also \to?ii\ for 
this purpose. This leaves only $48,987 to be 
raised. Thank God, and take courage. We shall 
soon have it. 

u To help what I can, I have written a 'Plea' 
for the Boston papers. I trust every daily in the 
city will give me a hearing, and that each will 
editorially say all it can to touch the great throb- 
bing heart of the public that is now waiting to re- 
spond. Decide upon some place where contribu- 
tions can be sent, and then call mass meetings on 
the Common or in Faneuil Hall. Send a crier to 
every street in the city of Boston. Let his voice 
ring out: 'The Old South can be saved. Come 
and help do it.' Soon there will be a company 
that no man can number. So great is the interest 
already awakened there will be nothing to do but 
take the contributions. 

"But there must be a John Baptist in every posi- 
tive movement like this. Who shall be the one? 



4/0 

It may be that God has raised you up to be the 
Voice in this wilderness. If he has, I have no 
doubt of your obedience. If need be, close your 
store, hang out a sign that you are to 

'save the old south,' 

and take my word it will be the wisest of invest- 
ments." 

Mrs. Farmer's choice and wise thought of this 
Meeting-house was that it should never be secular- 
ized, but be used forever for the purpose of divinely 
uplifting souls and saving them from sins : — 

" Let the women buy it, and keep it forever 
sacred as a memorial. Let its doors be open at the 
hour of noon. God and his angels will be there to 
welcome every waiting soul. It is none other than 
the very house of God and the gate of heaven. 
To use it for any other purpose would be like keep- 
ing our bodies after the spirit had departed forever. 
Take the spirit and life out of this Meeting-house, 
and it will be an index pointing to impending 
doom. "What a mockery it would be to celebrate 
the coming Fourth of July with the work of 
demolition going on within those walls! But I 
will not think of it. It will not be done. Dear, 
blessed old Boston, of whom her children are so 
justly proud, will yet save her good name. She 
does not deserve to be called by hard names or to 
be made a target. Wrong-doing will be no part of 
the inheritance she leaves to history. She will 
come forth from this fire purified, and will teach 
her children to endure." 



47i 

Her address to the women of Boston and her 
poem were scattered hither and yon at the time: — 

THE OLD SOUTH. 

An Appeal to the Wo7tien of Boston. 

"I send forth an appeal, as in the days of the 
war, from a bed of suffering, with the assurance 
that every cry for Help will be promptly answered 
by Here. There came to my chamber of suffering 
this morning a message like a voice from heaven, 
saying, 4 Will save the Old South if you can col- 
lect fifty thousand dollars within six days.' 'Glory 
to God in the highest!' was the soul's instant 
reply. 'The dear Old South will be saved.' To 
doubt this would be for me to doubt God's word; 
and, oh, I am so thankful that my faith in this 
point did not even waver when the doom of this 
sacred memorial seemed to be forever sealed. 
One week ago to-day God led me to see that this 
Meeting-house must be saved if his judgments 
were to be averted from the dear old city of Boston. 
Having done all in my power, a little band of three 
knelt in my chamber at noon, and committed the 
whole matter to him; and from that moment to this 
I have never doubted that the Old South would be 
saved. But God works by human means, and now 
I call upon every woman whose eye shall fall upon 
this appeal to awake to instant action. Let every 
woman feel to-day that the salvation of this church 
rests upon her personally, and the work is done. 
God knows how gladly I would take my place with 



472 

the army of the women that we shall soon see mov- 
ing upon the pockets of the people; but the 'thus 
far, and no farther,' is from God, and I thankfully 
accept the position at the rear, to which place he 
has assigned me, well knowing that other hands 
can better do the work, or he would not fold mine 
in helplessness. 

"This dear Old South was the gift of a woman. 
God put it into her heart to leave a memento for 
his children through all coming time; and now let 
woman redeem it, and hold it forever sacred. To 
do this, there must be concentrated action. Rally 
your forces instantly, and you will find that you 
have strength enough to 'hold the fort.' Do not 
waste an hour in talk. Let every word that you 
utter in this cause tell. God and the angels are 
watching you from the battlements of heaven. The 
Old South is saved will soon resound, and God shall 
have the glory. All I can do now is to pray. 
Every moment shall be spent in asking God to be 
the Help. And he will. The Old South will be 
saved. " Mabelle. " 

The poem is dated June 5, 1876, and indicates 
that it was the impulse of the hour. It was issued 
in several prints : — 

THE OLD SOUTH CHURCH. 

O women of our glorious land ! 

We beg, entreat, beseech, and pray, 
Don't let this idol e'er be touched, 

Or taken from our grasp away. 



473 

Turn back the strong and thoughtless host 
That would the baser natures show, 

And keep this dear old house of God 
For worship and the patriot's glow. 

O Heaven forbid that it should be 

In ruins, or in dust low laid, 
When God has spared it year by year, 

And blood its price has paid! 

Shame on the sordid love of gain 
That dares to lay a wasting hand 

On this, the bulwark of our strength, 
The glory of a freeman's land ! 

Shame on the men who live to-day, 
Devoid of love or patriot's pride, 

Who have not courage now to meet 
And face the wrong on every side ! 

The gold and silver are the Lord's, 
Not yours, proud man, to hold ; 

And do you dare to say his church 

Shall for the sake of " trade " be sold ? 

You might as well ask for our souls, 
And think without them we could live,. 

As yield the rights for which men gave 
The all they had the power to give. 

Go look upon that dear old church, 
Then tell me, if you dare or can, 

That in your soul there is not left 
The loyal attributes of man ! 

She stands to-day silent and dumb 
To outward sense of listening ear ; 

But is there yet a soul so dead 

Its voiceless pleadings will not hear? 

Proudly we turn to years agone, 

When all the sorrowing land was rife, 



474 

When every breeze bore back to us 
Sounds of the awful, deadly strife. 

We don't forget that in those days 

We found men valiant, brave, and true. 

We honor them for what they did : 
We ask them now what they will do. 

Will dear old Boston idly stand, 
Unmindful of this wicked fray, 

And see this fortress of her strength 
Swept from her iron grasp away ? 

She has been weighed, and always found 
With ever true and loyal heart : 

A blow that falls upon that church 
Will strike her in a vital part. 

When fire swept through her noble streets, 
And laid her costliest treasures low, 

Baptized anew was this dear church, 

Which men (?) for gold would now let go ! 

Thank God, we know that Boston waits, 
With righteous hand uplifted now! 

She will arise, and keep undimmed 
The crown upon her regal brow ! 

Last at the cross, first at the grave, 
Was faithful woman waiting found; 

And to my far-off island home 

There comes a joyful, welcome sound. 

We hear the coming of their feet, 
Nerved by a loyal woman's pride ; 

And well we know the cause is lost 
That has not woman on its side ! 

And now we reach them forth a hand, 
With earnest words of true God-speed. 

Oh, would that we could offer more, 

When willing hands and feet they need! 



475 

But here with folded hands we wait : 

The all-wise Master wills it so. 
The why we will not even ask : 

He says we shall hereafter know. 

The Old South Church has power to thrill 

Beyond this weariness of pain ; 
And for the loss sometime, somewhere, 

There will be found a higher gain. 

What can weak woman do alone 

Against this onward surging tide ? 
Why should we pause to answer back, 

When God and Right are on our side ? 

O women of to-day, be strong ! 

Don't let a traitor's foot come near ! 
Keep watch and guard around that fold 

Which holds so much for us that's dear. 

If the invader dares to come, 

Ring out a mighty, warning cry ! 
The echo will resound on earth, 

And answered be by hosts on high. 

Close round this dear old house of God 

Till every inch of sacred land 
Is covered o'er with loyal feet, 

And there united firmly stand. 

Say to the world, Those precious walls 

Are of our very life a part ; 
And, if you dare to raise a hand, 

Each blow will strike us through the heart. 

Another joy letter was at hand for her, dated at 
Boston, July 17, 1876: — 

"To Mrs. Farmer: 

''''Dear Madam, — It may comfort you to know- 
that in this darkest hoiir the most encouraging signs 



476 

of interest are appearing. It is not yet public ; 
but I may tell you in confidence for a few hours 
that one of Boston's noble ladies, supported by the 
most influential names of the city, has bought the 
old edifice, to hold in defiance against destroyers. 
Aid will come quickly now. The joyful end is near. 
" Yours truly, 

"G. W. Simmons, Jr." 

To this Mrs. Farmer returned a gladsome page: 
" Dear Mr. Simmons, — When you see Jesus face 
to face, he will tell you what joy and thanksgiving 
your letter brought to our home and hearts; but 
human language never can through mortal lips or 
pen. I fully appreciate your kind thoughtfulness. 
in writing me; and I am so thankful that the joyful 
tidings came to me first from you, as I have no 
doubt but you saved the dear old house from demo- 
lition. Some time I want to know what led you to 
believe that its salvation was possible after its sale 
by auction, and what influence you brought to bear 
upon Mr. Roberts to effect this. But, glory to 
God, the Old South is saved; and I can wait pa- 
tiently for all I need to know as to the how it was 
done. If anything could add to my joy, it is that 
the women of Boston hold it in their hands, beyond 
the reach of the demolisher. God forgive me for 
the wish that I could have been one of them. The 
suspense in regard to the fate of the Old South has 
been fearful, though I firmly believed it would be 
saved; but, when I looked at the human side, I 



477 

could but question where all this money was to 
come from? But God is able, and he helps if we 
trust. When your God-sent message came ( 4 The 
joyful end is near'), then in this chamber, around 
which the angels keep watch, dear praying souls 
knelt, and returned thanks to Almighty God for 
this wonderful deliverance." 

At this point Mrs. Farmer made a second effort 
to open the house for daily noon-tide prayers. No 
persuasion could effect this. What her arguments 
were can be gathered from the following letter: — ■ 

"What! no prayer to be offered in the Old South 
for thirty years ? If war called again for our brav- 
est and our best, could you ask them to gather in 
that God-consecrated place for the farewell, the 
last perhaps on earth, and then send them forth to 
die, with no word of prayer? Could you see your 
own son turn away from this house of God without 
knowing that blessing divine would go with him? 
Every spot in that house has been made holy for- 
ever by the truth. Turn it into a museum, and 
where will be the inspiration which is now the 
key-note of so many glorious deeds and the main- 
spring of so many lives? " 

What the sacred as well as historic Old South 
Meeting-house will yet become, the prophetic 
voice has never told; but one soul at least poured 
out her prayers that it might be an open door of 
redemption to those who cry unto God for an eter- 
nal release from the bondage of sin, 



XXXVII. 



ALFRED LITTLE. 



ALFRED LITTLE was an ever-welcome guest, 
not only at the Island Home, but wherever 
he chanced to be. Born in the old town of Profes- 
sor Farmer's nativity, and likewise akin to him, 
the two were linked in most brotherly fellowship, 
A strangely diversified brain, full of drollery, 
music, rare common sense, an absorbing reader, an 
ingenuity that could make even a piece of nothing- 
ness to be serviceable, everybody who once saw him 
remembered hirn, and everybody remembered him 
because they loved him. But this great, noble 
creature stepped not on the strong man's feet. He 
had the lifelong need of the support of his crutches. 
And his melodeon, made and tuned by his own 
skilful fingers, was, more than anything besides, 
his ready means of material support. Hundreds 
knew him by his inimitable music. 

When the Farmers were completing the long 
service at the beautiful Newport home, intelligence 
came that Alfred had swiftly taken the everlasting 
flight. It was a shock to the household. The 
Rev. Charles T. Brooks, who had often been 
charmed with his easy and sparkling conversation 



479 

at Island Home, sang one of his soulful melodies; 
and gratefully the music fell upon the ears of the 
wide, wide circle of mourners : — 

" Alas that the marvellous music is ended 

That held young and old in its magical spell, 
Where Nature's own voices so sweetly were blended, 
And must we bid music and minstrel farewell ? 

" Ah, no ! though the wizard has gone, and the fingers 
That played on our heart-strings are rigid and cold, 
Yet the voice, full of pathos, in memory lingers, 

And the cadences charm as they charmed us of old. 

" Yet not that weird instrument's rich combination 
Of rivulet's murmur and ocean's deep roll, 
The range of its tone through the realms of creation, — 
Not this made those moments most dear to the soul. 

" That thousand-stringed harp, by the Father created,— 
O friend, in thy bosom how finely 'twas strung ! — 
On that subtle music most fondly we waited, 
As it thrilled from thy fingers and breathed from thy tongue. 

"And is it now silent? Nay, mourners! Though never 
On earth that sweet music may pierce our dull ears, 
The harp framed in heaven shall in heaven forever 
In harmony echo the Song of the Spheres." 

Mrs. Farmer epitomizes this rare soul in one of 
her letters written before his upward flight: — 

" I had a good cry when I found Alfred had been 
at your home. If we had thought of his coming, 
we should have stayed with you. He is a com- 
fort to everybody, and the best person I ever saw 
to go about to different families; for he is as wise 
as he is good. Everybody who is in trouble of 
any kind finds in him a comforter and counsel- 



480 

lor. I hope he will make his home with you when- 
ever he is in Manchester. But, if I had my way, 
he would live always where I do." 

A glimpse of this gifted and musical life can be 
gathered from one of his letters to Mrs. Farmer, 
bearing the imprint of the New Hampshire State 
Prison. Alfred, by special invitation, visited the 
institution, and for the convicts' sakes touched 
his keys with music which was little less than 
human pathos and beauty. Perhaps we should say 
a little more than human ; for his notes melted the 
hearts that words failed to reach. 

"My dear Cousins, Hannah and Sarah, — You see 
I've got in again. Perhaps you will think it 
doesn't speak very well for me, and is not very 
complimentary to you, that my letter should go 
from a State Prison. To imitate is easier than to 
originate, and thus it follows that ptecedent is a 
great thing in this world; and this will explain 
why several of us are in for a second term. . . . 
But, speaking of crimes that brought us here, I was 
put in and locked in, yesterday, on a two hours' 
sentence. Guess my crime? I was riding through 
one of the streets of Concord with the warden, and 
he said to a man on the sidewalk, — 

"'I've got him.' 

"What are you taking him to prison for?' 

"'For being light-fingered [on the melodeon] ; 
and, what may seem a little paradoxical, to do a 
little stealing after we get him in, — i.e., to steal 
away their hearts.'" 



48 1 

While the great-hearted Alfred sang, he had 
also permission to talk to the convicts; and he 
wrote Mrs. Farmer a conclusion to which others 
perhaps will respond as well as herself: u But, the 
more I see and learn of these prisoners, the more I 
believe that some of them are more sinned against 
than sinning; and that some people outside and 
inside these thick granite walls deserve to change 
places." 

A merry little day at Island Home he describes 
in a letter to one whom he calls "Dear Frank": — 

"At the Naval Station I gave a concert one 
evening, at Cousin Farmer's suggestion, on the 
United States Navy tug-boat, 'Nina,' to the sailor 
boys who belong to the vessel. They decorated 
the cabin with the flags of various countries in 
honor of the occasion. Professor Farmer went 
with me, — the man who teaches the naval officers, 
— and he enjoyed it much to see the boys so happy. 
I could not help looking at the professor — the 
man, superior in mind and knowledge — trying to 
make sailor boys happy. Nor was he ashamed to 
spend the evening with them on their boat. The 
reason why? He is a Christian, and follows his 
Master in visiting the poor. 

"And, again at the professor's suggestion, I went 
to the Government Machine Shop, and played to 
the workmen while they sat about on the benches 
and on the great red torpedoes, and ate their 
dinners. 

"Then I wish you could have been with me to 



482 

take several rides with Captain Tom Shay, a noble 
fellow, in the swiftest sail-boat in Newport. He 
takes the government laborers to and from the city 
every morning and night. Also he takes the offi- 
cers and their families to ride in the bay. So Pro- 
fessor and Mrs. Farmer and Sarah went with me 
several times, all about the island, past Ida Lewis's 
light-house, Fort Adams, the Dumplings. And 
one day the daughter of the captain of the Naval 
Station asked Professor Farmer if I would go out 
with the young ladies; and three of them came, and 
took me and my melodeon. Two young ladies 
rowed and one steered, and we rowed till sundown. 
I played 'Row, brothers, row'; but I should have 
changed it to 'Row, sistets, row.' It was the cap- 
tain's 'gig,' carpeted, etc." 

The following letter, written by Mrs. Farmer to 
Alfred's sister, Mrs. (Chaplain) Little, not only 
has a tender reference to the sudden departure, but 
is a revelation of the spiritual insight which was 
as real to Mrs. Farmer as if she had attained to 
what our Scriptures term vision and open eyes. 
The annual gift of the lilies, which her pen deline- 
ates, continued as long as she lived: — 

"Your long and beautiful letter, dear Emma, 
was a great comfort to us, and we thank you for it. 
The last time the dear Alfred was with us in our 
Island Home he came for two weeks, and we kept 
him two months; and he only got away then to 
fulfil a promise made a year before. Every morn- 
ing, as soon as prayers were over, he came for a 



433 

talk with me. These talks were golden; and I 
knew then, just as I do now, what they were to 
me. Oh, how little I thought they were the last 
with him on earth! But, Emma dear, he is not far 
away from me ; and, wherever heaven is, I know it 
is near, for I can almost talk with Alfred. Last 
night I sat alone in the chamber and held sweet 
communion with him, and I told him I would do 
all I could to help you to fulfil his wishes in regard 
to the disposal of his personal effects. I think he 
knows all I shall write for him. I do believe that 
sin alone separates from those on the other side; 
and I should as soon think of doubting the exist- 
ence of my soul and spirit as not to believe that 
the angels who do my Father's bidding are near 
me every moment. I have the most veritable proof 
of this. Here let me tell you of instances of God's 
continual remembrance and ministrations : — 

"My baby Clarence has been in heaven twenty 
years. When they carried the precious little body 
to its last rest, our Eden Home was fragrant with 
the lilies of the valley. From that hour they have 
always seemed a link between my angel baby and 
me. Who will wonder at it, when I tell you that 
the month of May has never passed without the 
same sweet flowers being sent me, and often from 
those who are entire strangers, not only to me, but 
to the association of my thoughts and life with 
these flowers? One May a lady in Newport gave 
direction to a servant, who wished to come to see 
our cook, to bring a large bunch of these lilies of 



4 8 4 

the valley to me, with her love. Her conservatory- 
was filled with every flower one could name; and 
why did she especially select the lilies? Who told 
her to send them? All she knew of me was the 
simple fact that one of her servants wished to be 
absent awhile to visit in our kitchen. God sent 
me those lilies just as truly as if he had come vis- 
ibly from his home in heaven. 

"Still stranger was an incident which occurred 
two years ago. I was in Boston, spending a May 
Sabbath with the Coffins. We went to Dr. 
Cullis's chapel at the Highlands. After service 
Mrs. Coffin spoke with Dr. Cullis. While I 
waited for her, I noticed a lady on the other side of 
the church go to the pulpit and take three sprays of 
this precious flower from a vase; and she came to 
the group around the Doctor and gave them to him, 
and he handed them to me. I held them a moment, 
and then returned them. But he said, 'She re- 
quested that I give them to you.' Who told her to 
do that but my Risen Lord? Going out to that 
chapel in the street-car, I thought how near the 
end of May it was, and no lilies had been sent to 
me. I mentally queried if I should be justified in 
thinking that God had forgotten me if none came. 
I begged him not to allow me to be led into doubt, 
and told him I would still trust him, though no 
flowers came. When I entered the chapel, my 
heart was in peace. I was sure that I was still his 
care; and, when I left it, my heart was singing 
songs of triumph for the proof he had given me 



4^5 

of his love. Do you wonder that I feel the Ever- 
lasting Arms under me, and that his angels minis- 
ter to my earthly needs? 

"Heaven is nearer and the Father is dearer 
since Alfred went up the starry way. But the loss 
of his earthly presence falls upon me with crushing 
weight. His departure was so unexpected that for 
a time everything dropped from my hands. He has 
been associated with all my work for thirty years. 
From nearly every paper that I have cut up I have 
saved some clipping for him, and there has never 
been a time when a box was not kept to hold the 
things especially valuable or interesting to him. 
Dear, blessed soul, what would I not have done 
for him! My own brother was scarcely dearer." 

One can hardly think it strange that Alfred's 
life proved so vitally a power of goodness, when 
the following revealing of his mother is given us 
from Mrs. Farmer's letter to Mrs. Maynard, at 
whose home the very sudden departure was made: 

"God gave Alfred a very remarkable mother. 
Like Enoch, she walked with God. As her chil- 
dren were laid in her arms, each was given to God. 
A fairer, sweeter babe than Alfred was never given 
to a mother, and she poured out her thanksgiving 
for the precious gift. A few beautiful years were 
hers with no impending shadow, and then this 
child of so much love was crippled for life. To 
our short sight her mother-heart must have sunk 
as she saw this child of prayer laid aside from ac- 
tivities forever. But God could have said, 'I have 



486 

not seen such faith in Israel.' She told me the 
sweet story herself: 'I had given him so fully to 
God, that I could not take him back, and my faith 
in him was so sure and steadfast that I had no wish 
to withdraw the consecration. I never a moment 
doubted that my prayer had been heard in heaven 
and would be answered in earth; and through the 
years of pain that followed, when even Alfred's 
life was despaired of, I never lost hope, faith, or 
courage. I had given him to God, and I had only 
to fit him for God's service.' 

u And did not God do it by making Alfred a mis- 
sionary of good and pure influences, and by show- 
ing the miracle of a life that was apparently a bur- 
den transformed into a perfect wellspring of joy? 

" From that far-off Western home, where his dear, 
blessed mother still bears cheerfully the weight of 
eighty-two years [1881], there comes to us no cry 
of agony that Alfred is gone before her. Faith is 
triumphant as she says, ' Alfred's life of love is 
ended on earth, but it is begun in heaven.'" 

Very beautiful was the tribute paid to this 
"singer and player upon instruments " by the Hon. 
Charles Carleton Coffin, in a letter to his cousins, 
dated at his Boston residence, 81 Dartmouth Street, 
Jan. 30, 1881 : — 

"Dear Cousins, — It was a great gratification to 
be present at Alfred's funeral. He was indeed a 
brother to me. We had many things in common. 
Our friendship began when we were eight years 
old, and through all the years there was no jar be- 



4 8 7 

tween us. I remember the beginning of our ac- 
quaintance. I was at Ephraim Little's, and was 
going with him to drive a flock of sheep to pasture. 
We passed your Grandfather Jesse's house. Al- 
fred was in the dooryard, hobbling about on one 
crutch. An ox-cart stood in front of the house. 'I 
can run and get into that cart first,' he said. I 
wondered that a lame boy should make such a chal- 
lenge. I little knew the spirit that was in him. 
We had a race. Of course, I beat ; but he laughed 
just as heartily over his defeat as he would over 
his triumph. Of these boy days, I recall a train- 
ing at Swetts's Mills; and the beating of the drums 
came to our ears. I remember his make-up of a 
band which he would like to hear: ten violins, six 
double-bass-viols, a bugle, a French horn, bassoon, 
and a drum. I thought it a funny make-up for a 
military band. He never had heard such instru- 
ments in combination, but it was his intuition. 
In that respect he was remarkable. If he had re- 
ceived a thorough musical training, he might have 
h>een a brilliant composer. I am indebted to him 
for my first insight into harmony. I remember his 
return from the West after your father's death. 
He had a violin. He spent several weeks with me 
at my father's house, and could play several pieces 
through, but knew nothing of harmony until his 
work began at Concord. The tuning of instru- 
ments led him into it. During the years we lived 
at Boscawen he was with us often. I have gone to 
Concord many times purposely to get him, and we 



488 

have sung and discussed questions all the way to 
Boscawen. We each of us had a fund of stories; 
and I sometimes let the horse take his own course, 
that we might prolong the communion. 

"I think that my dedication to him of the story 
of ' Caleb Krinkle ' gave him a great deal of 
pleasure. 

" I remember the gratitude he expressed when I 
informed him that my character of Dan Dashaway 
had himself for an inspiration. 'I am not good 
enough for such a character, ' he said, with tears in 
his eyes. 

"It was an especial gratification to Sallie and me 
to have him with us last winter. We had several 
gatherings of musical and intellectual people on 
his account, and tried to make it pleasant for him. 
The beauty of it was that he gave them unalloyed 
pleasure. I took him as my guest to the Congrega- 
tional Club, which he greatly enjoyed. 

"Quite likely the friends at Webster have writ- 
ten that a tune which I composed at the funeral of 
Aunt Jane Gerrish — 'We are but strangers here' 
— was sung at Alfred's funeral. He always liked 
it; but he liked much better 'Till He come,' 
which I enclose. I composed it while he was here, 
and had his aid in the work of the harmony. I 
thank God that I had so much of him. He has 
been an inspiration to me. His loss will be felt 
in a great many households. He never had an 
enemy. He did what he could to make the world 
brighter and better, and there are fewer tears than 



4 8 9 

there would have been if he had not lived. There 
is less of sorrow and more of joy, and that is the 
difference of heaven and hell. He was true to his 
convictions; and they were all for truth, justice, 
righteousness, and goodness. He will be a bless- 
ing and a benediction to scores of children who 
will never forget his unvarying cheerfulness, his 
play of humor, his wonderful music, his influence 
for good." 

Alfred Little and Professor Farmer were of the 
same genealogical descent, Colonel Moses Gerrish 
and Jane Sewall, his wife, already alluded to in 
this volume, being the common ancestors, — the 
old portrait of the colonel on the walls of the 
professor's library making the far-away progenitor 
to seem like a present and familiar presence. 
Alfred wrote a letter in rhyme to Mrs. Farmer, 
and very quaintly brought into it the name of the 
old-time Jane (Sewall) Gerrish: — 

" Point Judith, on Long Island shore, 
Where oft is heard the breaker's roar, 
From Judith Quincy took its name, 
A family allied to fame. 
Captain John Hull, who showed his skill in 
Coining ye ancient Pine Tree Shilling, 
This lovely Judith made his wife, 
And with her lived a happy life. 
Their daughter Hannah, it is said, 
Chief Justice Samuel Sewall wed. 
Her sire, the bouncing bride to favor, 
Her weight in Pine Tree Shillings gave her. 
Chief Justice Sewall was the brother 
Of my great-great-great-great-grandmother. 



490 

Jane Sewall was her maiden name. 
Your Moses is allied the same. 
I'll make you no apologies 
For ' endless genealogies.' " 

Among the printed articles from Alfred's pen is 
a quaint question of the little daughter of Professor 
Farmer : — 

INFANT ASTRONOMY. 

"Mother [asked the little daughter of a cele- 
brated inventor], what do the posts stand on that 
hold up the stars, or, if the stars hang down, what do 
they tie the strings to ? " How could a child too 
small to appreciate the law of gravitation ask a 
more sensible or philosophical question? 



XXXVIII. 



LAST DAYS AT NEWPORT. 



THE two souls who had journeyed so lovingly 
together since the wedding day of 1844 were 
to enter into a new fellowship in the home of sin- 
gular beauty at Newport. Heretofore the pain- 
bearer had been the wife. The physical endurance 
had been the husband's dowry. The last two years 
at Newport, Professor Farmer also touched in sym- 
pathy what Saint Paul describes as "the fellow- 
ship of his suffering." With him it was not the 
acute agony which had claimed dominion in the 
frail tenement of Mrs. Farmer, but that painless 
disability which is the test of nerve and spirit. 
The dear woman, whose strongest thought was her 
husband's weal, wrote of him: — 

"It is now two years since Mr. Farmer's limbs 
began to trouble him about walking. They are 
still weak, but seemingly a great deal better. His 
head is as clear as ever, and he is as capable of 
doing brain-work. But his work is now wholly 
confined to the Station, as it consumed too much of 
his strength to attend to his business in Boston. 
All this has made such a change in me that some- 
times I look at myself in the glass, and wonder 



492 

who I am, anyway. I feel as though I were a hun- 
dred years old. I do not think you would know me 
if you should meet me in the street." 

And to Mrs. Soule she wrote at this date: — 

"This will be our last season here. Husband's 
health may oblige him to lay down his life-work 
and rest for a year. If it does, we shall change 
our residence. No public work has been done here 
for a few months, but that in no way interferes 
with his investigations or with his experiments. 
He had a good deal of apparatus of his own that he 
could use; and he went steadily on with his chosen 
work until he broke down with the harness on. 

"Have I told you about my soldier? He went 
to heaven a month ago; and his dear little wife is 
almost heart-broken, — four little ones, and only 
God to depend upon. It will do her good to see 
you. I think you could comfort her a good deal. 
Come and see if you can." 

A letter about "my dear Moses" gives us another 
glimpse of how the two feeble children of the King 
were drifting through the latest days at Newport: 

"My dear Moses is certainly better, can bear 
more light, can sleep eight hours out of the twenty- 
four. How thankful I am that God has been so 
good to spare him a little longer! The other night 
I was sitting with him alone, and he said: T do 
not think, dear, that either of us will stay a great 
while longer. It seems as if we are almost home. 
And, when we get there, how glad we shall be that 
we have left our earthly work as worn-out pilgrims, 



493 

and that we have not rusted out ! ' The cold shivers 
run over me yet. Can you think what this world 
would be to me if Moses should enter the eternal 
home before I do? And yet, if it is the will of 
God, I hope he will not be the one to know the 
loneliness of waiting for another tide." 

Decoration Day was the day of all days of the 
year to her. A letter written with a tired pencil 
says : — 

" I send these blessed little flowers, bedewed 
with tears, for the grave of the sainted one. Leave 
them upon the sacred mound, and then thank God 
for a love that is stronger than death. I wish I 
could be with you on Decoration Day; and I shall 
be, even if I am here. I have a dear friend in 
Portland who laid in the grave last August all that 
made earth home to her. She refuses to be com- 
forted. She does not find the precious Saviour 
bearing a part of her heavy burden, and she sinks 
beneath the weight. Ask God to raise her up, and 
to comfort her, even as he has you. The way may 
be rough for you both, but it will not be long." 

The comfort of her fellowship with her tried and 
true ones found expression : — 

"You have never known, dear, loving soul, what 
your friendship has been to me. God gave it to 
me as a token of his love, and now I am asking 
him to let me see again your dear earth-face. The 
veil is thin between us, and I almost wonder at 
your silence. You seem near enough to me to hear 
what I am saying to you. Why is it that you seem 



494 

so much nearer to me at one time than at another? 
Are you in a place where you need me, or do I need 
the strength for some trial yet in store, — that pe- 
culiar strength which your presence always gives? 
The dear Lord alone knows, and I will trust him. 
I have felt for days a nearness to him which is in- 
describable. And this oneness with God always 
brings to me his disciples; and I know that you are 
one of them, and that he loves you with an everlast- 
ing love. Hold fast his dear hand, and he will 
lead you safely home, where the loved are waiting 
to welcome/* 

To this same friend, whose sympathy was so real 
to her, she wrote again : — 

" I was reading yesterday of a very aged man who 
had given his heart to God when he was but ten 
years old, and had served him faithfully seventy- 
four years. His last hours were full of triumph, 
and at length the weakness took away the thoughts 
of the dear ones who could scarcely tell whether he 
were breathing or not; then he suddenly lifted 
his dear old, dying hand, and said, 'Dear Jesus, 
take it.' Who can doubt that God grasped that 
uplifted hand, and led him on? Let us cut our- 
selves loose from everything that will impede our 
upward flight, and follow those who have reached 
home before us." 

From the scores of letters she received, letters 
which increased in numbers every added month of 
her Island Home life, we gather a few fragments 
indicative of her divine mission : — 



495 

"I have often heard my husband speak of you 
and Miss Farmer in the highest terms, and of your 
benevolence in cases of need; but I never thought 
to have the honor to address you. No words can 
express my gratitude for your letter of sympathy. 
I was beginning to cherish bitter feelings to God, 
but he put it into your heart to send me those 
promises and tell me of the assurance of faith." 

And another wrote : — 

"You have been so kind, I shall never forget 
you. I cried for joy when I got your good letter 
and the money. It will help me much. When it 
came, I was sick in bed." 

Another tells her that " it is hard to be sick and 
not have a mother." And one whose heart must 
have led to benevolent labors wrote: "I will write 
you as fully as if writing to my mother, for I be- 
lieve you have the noble heart-beat for the troubled, 
and I thank God for just such women as you; and 
I shall feel, too, that the poor girl of whom I 
speak will have a helper in yourself." 

Is it any wonder that such written messages were 
the daily allotment of her Father, when she herself 
was saying with almost her latest Newport pencil- 
ing:— 

"I am interested in everybody who is sick; and 
your own heart will tell you that your dear suffer- 
ing sister will find a ready sympathy from me. 
Give my love to her. Tell her from me that the 
religion of Jesus has power to comfort when 
earthly friends can only look on with pitying heart 



496 

and tearful eye. The Saviour invites her to come. 
His arm is the only place of rest. I trust that she 
will be willing to give herself soul and body to 
him. 

We have already given a newspaper review of the 
Newport life; but it will still further please us to 
complete these glimpses of the Island Home with 
another paragraph from the city press : — 

"The electrician, Professor M. G. Farmer, al- 
though born in the Granite State, spent the greater 
part of his eventful life in and about Boston. His 
numerous inventions of electrical apparatus have 
made him equally well known as Edison. To a 
great extent, he has made the Torpedo Station what 
it is to-day. He nurses and cares for its interests 
as carefully as a mother does for her offspring; and, 
when the future history of the Station is written 
up, his name will occupy its proper place. 

"In this connection, it can be stated that Profes- 
sor Farmer and his estimable daughter are two of 
the best friends which the poor of Newport have 
ever found; and many families are sought out by 
Miss Farmer, who need pecuniary and other assist- 
ance, and her sweet Christian spirit, coupled with 
kindred graces, has illuminated many dark homes 
where want and distress were pictured in the faces 
of those who occupied them. Many, very many in- 
stances could be recorded where Miss Farmer has 
honored her sex; but it is enough to say that she 
and her revered parents spend thousands of dollars 
in alleviating the wants of the needy, and it should 



497 

be stated that it is always done with the greatest 
secrecy. Some time ago the professor's family was 
obliged to be absent from Newport for some time; 
and the fact has come to the knowledge of the 
writer that before they went they made arrange- 
ments with a gentleman to continue the payment 
of ten dollars per week to a family the head of 
which was slowly dying of consumption." 



XXXIX. 



HARVEST DAYS. 



THE chosen retreat when Newport became a 
memory was the dear old Eliot homestead. 
It was the shelter of the final decade, and the spot 
called above every other during that time — Home. 
" My dear Birdie, — I wish you could feast your 
eyes on the beauty to be seen from the piazza. 
The grand old trees are like poems; and, if my 
harp had not hung upon the willows until its 
strings were rusted, the inspiration of everything 
in the outside world would certainly find expres- 
sion in songs of praise. 'Let everything that hath 
breath praise the Lord.' So my thankful heart 
goes out with glad thanksgiving to Him who made 
this beauty. Oh, if my dear, sainted mother 
could only come back to me, and plant with 
her own hands the flowers she loved, and live here 
again in this blessed home, what a comfort it 
would be to me! But in the house not made with 
hands she hath now her dwelling-place; and she 
knows, too, all about her earthly home. Because 
she is happy, I must be, also. I feel her presence 
with me in every room of the house. By this I 
know her benediction rests upon all we have done. 



499 

I wish you could go upon the veranda with me, and 
see for yourself the loveliness. We have nothing 
to do but to plant the vines, and make the place 
blossom as the rose. When you are strong again, 
you will enjoy the rest and beauty of this home 
so fully crowded with comfort. I am in father's 
wheel-chair; but I shall have the strength to walk 
in a very little while." 

But the Eliot cottage, with its vines and flowers 
and attractive lawn, was only the pivot. The 
family, in all the last ten years of Mrs. Farmer's 
life, was revolving as calls and necessities de- 
manded. 

The first thought in the dear woman's mind was 
the comfort of her husband. She ceased not to 
test the skill and help of any sanitarium that could 
lift him from his wheel-chair. "Do you know what 
it is," wrote the feeble man, "to feel prison walls 
coming closer and nearer? not to be able to help 
one's self to things needful?" And his wife, in a 
sketch of him and his invention of the fire-alarm, 
and her own sympathetic stepping at his side, adds : 

"Through life it has been so easy for vie to suffer 
if I could only keep my dear husband far above it ; 
and now the dear Father has seen it needful to add 
his feebleness to my own full cup. The tenderest 
part of my being is daily touched at the sight 
before me, as I see my beloved meekly bearing his 
heavy cross ; and it often seems as if the angels in 
glory must look down upon him with wonder and sur- 
prise, as they mark the uplifted soul so far above 



500 

his natural surroundings. The busy brain was 
never more intensely active than now; and yet the 
hands must be folded, and the willing feet go no 
more about on their errands of love, mercy, and 
duty." 

Writing of Professor Farmer's scientific investi- 
gations resulting in such wide helpfulness to com- 
munities and the world, she truthfully added: — 

u God has called us to do no common work for 
him; and, when he assigns a task to any of his chil- 
dren, he fits them for it in his own way and uses 
his own tools. The agony of the process in our 
own case has been known only to him, but nothing 
else would have prevented us from living out our 
own lives in a far different manner." 

For the husband's best welfare as well as for her 
own, the sanitariums at Dansville, N.Y., Delaware 
Water Gap, Pa., and of Drs. Taylor and Moore in 
New York City, were each resorted to during the 
latest years. All proved pleasant places: the fel- 
lowship of the homes had much that was desirable; 
friendships were formed of great comfort, and in 
every one the good woman was a pillar of strength 
to somebody. But, scattered as the good deeds and 
words were, the harvest was not scattered. She 
was a constant reaper, though sometimes she 
seemed not to know it. The whole helpfulness of 
her life to her husband's work cannot to-day be 
revealed; but of her deeds, which from their daily 
commonness we strangely call the lesser ones, we 
gather up as we can, and they are a praise unto 



SOi 

God and a gladness to her memory. Mrs. (Chap- 
lain) Little wrote a very sensible paragraph to her: 

" I have had to educate myself into throwing 
away things I would like to keep, because I have 
no home. As you are sick, do you not believe it 
would relieve you of some care if you would do the 
same? It is tilings, things, things, that bind us 
down." 

Probably Mrs. Farmer was counseled a thousand 
times to lay not only things, but also peoples and 
sorrows and needs, forever and far away ! But her 
harvest days would have missed the ripened corn 
and the golden sheaf. We have found scores of 
grateful letters, which no eyes but her own had 
read, which touch upon things and peoples. Some 
told of rent-days when the landlord ceased to be a 
dread, for she antedated his coming. She fur- 
nished homes with literature, books for the South 
and West, a list of more than forty names had 
yearly papers. She paid the expenses of half a 
dozen youths at the schools at Northfield. Two at 
least were able to gain the help of a European 
school and climate and travel. She helped more 
soldiers, to the day of her death, than anybody will 
ever know, and then add to the list the dumb ani- 
mals, people in hospitals, reforms, etc. It is 
useless to attempt the things she did and the words 
she said. The dear friend, Margaret Merritt, 
wrote to her : — 

"I can tell, my dear Mrs. Farmer, by the pencil- 
ing how the patient's strength is. You dear 



502 

soul! why cannot something be found to give you 
strength? Is it not as Dr. Hurd used to say, 'You 
take up too much of your vitality in doing for 
others?' That is, when you are climbing up-hill 
and have reached a nice resting-place, you reach 
down and exhaust all your strength in pulling 
others up. Dear Mrs. Farmer, tell me, do you not 
think it would pay physically for you to be a little 
selfish ? " 

When this same interesting friend again mis- 
trusted that Mrs. Farmer was indulging too richly 
in angel toils, she sharpened her quill: — 

"I am glad to know that it is so well with Pro- 
fessor Farmer and Sarah, but I am not so happy 
about you. I am almost sure you are taking the 
burdens of too many. I expect every troubled soul 
in town and out of town comes to you. This keeps 
you weak and tired of heart. What can I do to 
stop all this? You will never shut one away. It 
is true, as I said to dear Sarah, that you will wear 
out soul and body for other people. I often think 
of you as I saw you in your room in that fc Isle of 
the Blest ' [at Newport]. You were busily work- 
ing, — and when were you ever otherwise? — I stood 
and looked at you several minutes before you lifted 
your eyes and saw me. I had never seen you so 
tranquil, so, as it were, at rest." 

After this sisterly chiding, she unconsciously 
goes on to say the very words to touch a chord in 
that heart of love, and call forth its sympathy: — 

"It was only when you were gone from Dr. 



503 

Taylor's that I realized how much that was com- 
forting went away. All the winter, when I have 
felt badly, and have thought of my mother, I would 
have given everything to be able to go to you. 
Even Ellen [the cook] came to me, and said she 
bad a longing to see you, and bought a card and 
wanted me to send it; for she did not know how."' 

Another writes : — 

" I have thought of you so much since we parted 
at the cure. You have helped me, dear Mrs. 
Farmer, and have been a mother to me. I shall 
never forget you. When I read of Mrs. Hopkins's 
death, it was a great shock. Mother and she were 
so often together at Dansville, and now God has 
called them both." 

One of the several who were sent to the schools 
wrote and told her: — 

" I can hardly, realize that my school-days at 
Northfield are over. I cannot write you how badly I 
felt to leave the dear friends and place where my life 
has been made so happy for four years ; and I trust 
it has been made better, nobler, and more wholly 
consecrated to my Lord and Master. To you my 
heart goes out with gratitude and thanksgiving 
for placing me in the school, and for all you have 
done for me while there. You told me the way 
you wanted me to repay you was by doing the 
same by some one when I was able. And it is 
my purpose to work and send one whom I know, 
that she may receive the good from the school that 
I have." 



504 

Sometimes odd bits of trial were confided to her. 
A very precious and most unselfish saint wrote of a 
woman who was despised : — 

"As I was passing quietly along, this Mrs. 
A. B. C. came to her gate, and spoke to me in a 
friendly way. The news of it had reached our tea- 
table even before I got home. The result was all 
looked askance, because I allowed it. I told my 
landlady that she was giving me no chance to re- 
joice, as Jesus did, over a sinner that repenteth. It 
is rather hard on me: I love to forgive every one 
who repents ever so little. It seems as if we are 
purer and clearer after we have sinned and repented 
than we were before. At any rate, I am almost 
happy when I am sorry for any badness ; but the 
rabble seems to be utterly ignorant of how this is. 
It is such a pity that they do not understand that 
a spirit of forgiveness gives us wings." 

The kindly Mrs. Dix, in the last letter from her 
pen, which will, perhaps, be quoted in this vol- 
ume, said : — 

"Can you realize that you and your blessed hus- 
band and Saint Sarah and lone I are the same 
beings who began to know each other in 1861? 
Well, here we are; and when shall one of us open 
the gate for another? Are we better freighted for 
the long journey than we should have been without 
our daily experiences, — some of them very bitter? 
My own later trials seem only to ripen the teach- 
ings laid down by him who was born as we are, 
and died setting his seal to his ministry in his 



505 

life's blood. I wish I could press to you how clear 
this is to me, — so natural and simple a plan of sal- 
vation in comparison to the long-time darkness of 
earlier days. Patience and submission are creep- 
ing into my soul, and they bring enough of their 
dewy mornings to let me see how beautifully our 
paths are laid out for us. Even my Hervey's smil- 
ing and loving face seems to come peering in at 
the door as of old. These things are new to me; 
but you three have been thus sustained in all your 
years. I trust not to have my hard teachings taken 
away. I shall get on the road by them, and every- 
thing will be easier day by day. Put me into your 
prayers the morning after you receive this. Pray 
that I may hold on to that which I have, and that 
it may be the nucleus of great stores." 

There was now and then a ripple of pleasantness 
as she opened her mails and found a letter which 
hung her side by side with some portrait in the 
gallery of saints. When the memoir of the Prin- 
cess Alice was in its freshness, a friend wrote : — 

"I thought of you yesterday, dear Mrs. Farmer, 
for I read the 'Princess Alice,' and she was so like 
you. From beginning to end of the volume I 
thought she was your sister. You must believe, 
therefore, that you are of royal blood. Indeed, we 
have all of us believed it for years. But may be 
you do not realize it. When you are comfortable 
you must surely read this story of the princess. 
Do not undertake it until you are strong enough to 
cry a little; for, every now and then, one must 



5°6 

shed a tear or two over the pages. She was all 
heart, like her great and good mother, the queen." 

A letter dated in 1888 brings out another resem- 
blance: — 

" Dear Mrs. Farmer, — In the March New Eng- 
land Magazine is a portrait and sketch of Mrs. 
Elizabeth Thompson. The likeness to both you 
and Mrs. Gurtin in face, brain, and figure, is clear. 
That forehead tells why you three are so unselfishly 
benevolent. Such a life as Mrs. Thompson's must 
be classed with Count Tolstoi." 

From these extracts of her harvest letters we 
turn now to her own pen. To a minister, invited 
to address an historical society, who had been 
questioned as to the propriety or consistency of 
mixing his religious duties with a secular work, 
she wrote very sensibly: — 

"A one-sided life is not safe for any of us. So 
use all the talents God gave you, and expect the 
divine blessing. Do all you can to add to the 
Avorld's interests. Dear child, it will be strictly 
in your line to give the address; for it is something 
pleasing to God. In your desire to do a religions 
work, you are in danger of forgetting that all things 
are to be done unto him. The secular and religious 
go hand in hand: they are as one. If you so con- 
sider them, you will not narrow and contract your 
life." 

When a gentleman, a summer resident of the 
beautiful Newport, took a noble attitude against 
bird-shooting, and newspapers proclaimed the same, 



507 

it stirred her long-established interest in the Pre- 
vention of Cruelty Society, and she sent him 
directly her thanksgiving, though she had not met 
him in society: — 

"My dear Sir, — You are a stranger to me, per- 
sonally; but I think I shall be sorrowful if I let 
one opportunity pass without speaking an encour- 
aging word. So I come with no apology whatever, 
and thank you from the depths of my heart for the 
course you have taken. No words will convey to 
you the gratitude I personally feel for an act that 
will be so far-reaching in its influences and so 
beneficent in its effects. Two of my friends who 
are greatly interested in the Dumb Animals have 
recently visited me, and have told me of the reports 
in print in regard to a recent law passed, prohibiting 
pigeon-shooting, and that in Newport it will be 
defied, and the sport go on as usual. I said to 
them, 'Here is one man' (meaning yourself), 
4 whose voice will help this question. If he elects 
to respect this law, it will be done.' It is said, 
4 More things are wrought by prayer than this world 
dreams of.' So we will pray night and day that 
God will give you the wisdom and strength that 
dare to do right. Do you wonder that the para- 
graph thrilled me through and through? My heart 
has sung paeans of thankfulness every time I have 
thought of it. Having thus proved yourself amen- 
able to the laws of your State, shall I not have the 
assurance that you will, in obedience to the law of 
Christ, take an equally decided stand in regard to 



508 

the fox-hunts so soon to take place in glorious old 
Newport? Hunted down as they are by hounds, 
torn limb from limb, yet the grace and beauty 
of Newport lends its presence to this far-famed 
sport (?). I have thought of all this until my heart 
cried out in its deep distress, 'How long, O Lord,, 
how long?' Woman — Heaven bless her! — was 
last at the cross and first at the resurrection. And 
so may her voice now raise such a cry against the 
cruelty inflicted upon God's helpless creatures that 
women, and men, too, will awake to the nature of 
the awful sin ! " 

The allusion in this letter to the Society of 
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was but one of 
many in her various correspondences. When she 
bought the hill in Eliot, for her God-inspired 
Rosemary, she wrote : — 

"The hill at Rosemary is long and very hard for 
horses with heavily loaded teams. For a great many 
years the people have wished to cut a short road at 
its base. As soon as we bought the land, they ap- 
plied to us for a permit. Of course, we said, Yes. 
Who would not who love dumb animals as we do ? " 

Again her joy bell rings as she writes: — 

"Dear C, — I have somewhat to say that will 
make you very, very happy. I have been able to 
save up one hundred dollars for that dear boy who 
is over the sea; and I can get it any moment his 
studies demand it. What a glad, quick throb your 
heart will give at the very thought of it : then you 
will fall on your knees and pour out your thanks 



509 

unto him who gave me this fund. Oh, how I love 
the precious Father for all he does for me and 
mine! And 'mine' includes everybody of the house- 
hold of faith. I have not yet talked with God for 
any more for our boy, and do not intend to now. 
What we have will go a good way, and then God 
will have more." 

While at Dr. Moore's, she had the joy of a box 
of books for the South : — 

"When your letter came this morning, I was al- 
most wild with joy. I did not think to hear of the 
books for a month. I thought it would take that 
time to get at bottom facts. Oh, I am so glad! 
What a comfort it will be to Mrs. Gilmer, who has 
been at work a year. She is nine miles from a 
railroad; and the people to whom she will carry 
some are ten miles further from her own house. 
But, if the box gets to the end of the railroad, 
strong, willing hands will make the rest easy." 

On the thirty-ninth wedding-day (1883) she 
wrote on a slip of paper for her husband's eye and 
heart : — 

TO MY FIRST AND ONLY LOVE. 

Though nine-and-thirty years have passed 

Since first I called thee mine, 
The heart and hand I gave thee then 

Are both, sweet love, still thine. 
Each for the other, both for God, 

Has made this love divine. 
So all we are or hope to be 

We'll lay upon his shrine. 

Your ever loving 

Mabelle, 



5io 

In 1886 came a fresh trial to work out its "more 
exceeding reward." 

"My dear Charlotte, — I should say I am about 
worn out. I do not say this in any complaining 
spirit. I only admit it as a hard, cold fact. Still, 
the brain was never more active; and this constant 
thinking is like a sponge, and absorbs all my 
strength. I am up and about every day, and drag 
my tired feet from room to room on this floor, feel- 
ing all the while as if I should fall. The trouble 
is a lack of strength. The awful suffering seems 
to be a thing of the past, and yet may return any 
day; but I never allow myself to think of it. If 
God sends the pain, he will send the patience to 
bear it. My dear husband is quite well for him, 
but is confined almost wholly to his wheel-chair. 
The doctors disagree in regard to the cause of his 
weakness. All we can do is to leave him in God's 
hands, and be thankful that he does not suffer. He 
is just as good as ever, and is still a 'blessing to 
the world, and all the world to me.' Just now we 
are too worried about Sarah to make any great prog- 
ress health-ward. She is away from us, and ill. 
She left home expecting to be gone a week, and we 
have not seen her dear face since. A part of the 
time she has been ill in bed, but says, 'Better 
now, and sleep quietly.' I am not well enough to 
go to her, and that is the dreadful part of the sepa- 
ration. Her father has to be lifted in and out of 
the carriage; but I think he will go to her at 
Boston, and then we shall know just how she is." 



5n 

To the absent daughter went a word of mother- 
love, after the father had reached her : — 

" My precious Birdie, — I suppose you will expect 
a letter from me, although the other and better half 
of me is within reach of your arms. Think of the 
home left desolate to give light to your eyes! 
I never knew until now how dear this home is 
to my heart. Here I first learned to love your 
father, the one man of all the world whom I could 
marry. Oh, the years of blessedness that have fol- 
lowed love's young dream. Now that we have 
walked the long path together almost forty-two 
years, I can truthfully say that I think he has been 
and is nearer perfection than any man I ever knew 
except my now sainted father. As far as I can 
judge, one life was as perfect as the other has been 
before God and man. O Birdie mine, be tender 
and good to your dear father while he is spared to 
you. I shudder when I think what life would be 
to me without him; and yet, if it were the will of 
God, I think I should be thankful that I had been 
spared to care for him until the last. I have never 
seen the time when I have felt willing to go and 
leave you and your precious father alone, even 
though agony is the only word that will express 
the sufferings much of the time. 

I cannot go yet, thou angel band, 

For a life is linked with my own ; 
And how would he live, if I go with you ? 

A part of himself would be gone. 

Still another cord is binding me here. 
There are tender little feet 



512 

To be guided home to the Shepherd's fold, 
To pastures fair and sweet. 

I ask for life till her wings have strength 

To fly from the dear home nest, — 
Till the loved of my soul has finished his work, — 

And then I will think of my rest. 

"Written in the long ago by your ever loving 
mother." 

The result of the daughter's prostration was a 
proposed surcease from all toils of benevolent life 
and a season in Europe; and consequently a sum- 
mer was spent among the delights of England and 
the continent. When the day of leave-taking 
came, the mother wrote her good-by: — 

" My precious Child, — What can I say to you in 
these last hours more than I have been saying all 
your life? That you are dearer to me than my own 
self is what you already know; and, if you were not 
dearer, I could never consent to let you turn away 
from me, knowing that the ocean would soon roll 
between us. Even with this deathless love, it 
seems like laying a hand upon my living heart. 
When and where our next meeting will be is known 
only to God. To him I now turn with unfaltering 
footsteps, and beg him to be better for you than my 
prayers, to put underneath you the everlasting 
arms, and let you feel that you are in truth and very 
deed his own dear child, and to help you ever to be 
faithful at all times and in all places to the solemn 
vows we made unto him in the long ago. We are 



513 

thankful to him that your precious life has been 
spared to us so long, and that you have been 
through all these years a messenger of good to all 
around you. In this our prayers have been an- 
swered. To his tender, loving care we now commit 
you, begging him to hold the winds and the waves 
in the hollow of his hand, and to give his angels 
charge concerning you. Be faithful to him, my 
dear, blessed child, and do not fail to speak a good 
word for him at every opportunity. Your daily life 
can always be a witness for him if you go forth 
from the dear, sheltering home-nest in his strength; 
and I charge you now to do all you can for him who 
has loved us with an everlasting love. You cannot 
go so far from us that his eye will not follow you; 
and in his own good time we hope to welcome you 
back to the home-fold, where you have always been 
the centre of our every hope and joy. The love of 
the father and mother will follow you in all your 
journeyings, and their prayers will be unceasing 
that every home you enter may be made brighter by 
your sweet and gracious presence. Tell every 
burden-bearer, who is trying to walk through the 
Gethsemane of sorrow alone, that there is balm in 
Gilead, and that the Physician is there to whom 
they can go for help in every hour of need. Lift 
up the fallen; be patient with the tried and 
tempted; whisper hope to the weak and erring; be 
strong and full of courage in the hour when there 
is anything you can do for God and for the world; 
and through the labor of love for our Lord and 



514 

Saviour Jesus Christ must come the compensa- 
tion, while we patiently wait here to do God's 
bidding through the long and painful separa- 
tion which even now seems so hard to bear. We 
could not do it without God's help; and, leaning 
hard upon him, we shall find the needed strength to 
meet life's duties day by day. He has never failed 
us yet, and he never will. We are his for time 
and for eternity; and, when his plans are revealed 
in us, we shall see that no other way would have 
led us home. Your dear little baby brother is 
one of God's angels, and is doing his work there 
instead of here. Oh, it is so blessed to think of 
him as a messenger of God! What an honor God 
conferred upon me to let me be the mother of one 
of his angels in heaven, and of the household evan- 
gel he has left with me on earth ! " 

To Margaret Merritt, April 15, 1886: — 
"It lifts such a load from my mother-heart to 
think that your eyes will watch the ship sail away 
that takes so much light and love from our lono-ins: 
eyes. I do not think I could stand on the wharf and 
see her leave our shores: I should fall dead in the 
moment. You would not call me brave if you 
could see my heart as God does. I am like the 
reed shaken with the wind. All I can do is to 
commend her to God, then watch and wait here, car- 
ing for her dear, blessed father. This upsetting 
has been a great tax upon him, but I trust all will 
be well. God loves us, and he knows what is best. 
I beg of you to come to me for the summer. You 



5i5 

shall lie under the trees all day, and drink in new 
life; sleep here has nothing to break its sweetness 
except the low lullaby of the pines and the birds 
pouring out their morning anthems." 

When Sergeant Plunkett died at Worcester, a 
friend, remembering her ceaseless work and inter- 
est in the army boys, sent her a lily of the valley 
from a funeral wreath : — 

"It is your birthday, dear Mabelle, and I ought 
not to send a funeral flower. But it is a fragment 
of the burial day of Sergeant Plunkett, the armless 
hero of Fredericksburg. The March wind blew it 
out of the carriage upon the walk; and I think the 
wind had you especially in mind, for the lily fell 
within reach of my hand. All the funeral flowers 
were carried the next day to the South Church and 
laid before the pulpit. Addresses were made, and 
a letter was read from 'Carleton.' Professor Roe 
of the High School said it was an honor to his 
pupils to have participated in the ceremonies." 

In her response Mrs. Farmer said: — 

"I thank God for the gift of the funeral lily. 
How kind to remember me! I have known the ser- 
geant's story, and while he was at the State House 
I always desired to see him. I must wait until I get 
to heaven; for, where God is, there I shall find him 
who sacrificed those two arms for my country, and 
therefore for me." 

One day, while in New York, she felt a convic- 
tion to send a Bible to a family who had the sacred 
volume in every room and in every variety of print. 
It was a singular gift, but of it she wrote : — 



5 i6 

"Do you know what a strange feeling I had 
about sending that golden Bible for Robie? Mr. 
Farmer and Sarah urged me to get anything else, 
but I was impressed to send just that. When Mira 
saw in it something for Robie, I knew well that 
God had a purpose in the gift. You cannot see 
now what is before that dear child. Temptations 
meet him at every turn he must take. The tides 
of life have unseen forces; the currents are swift 
and strong. How many crafts drag their anchors! 
Somebody told me recently what you had been 
doing for a young man, personally, since he was in- 
troduced to you; and, but for your words, who 
knows but he might have been lost? I love to 
think that our dear Eden Home influences strength- 
ened you for the battles. You told Mr. Farmer 
once that you could make a book of Memories of 
Eden Home. It was such a holy place, I do not 
know but the angels will be glad to see you if you 
should write it; and perhaps no person on earth 
could tell of the precious work of the Lord there 
but yourself." 

The kinship with every rank of reformers, 
whether she knew them personally or not, gleams 
out in a paragraph when Wendell Phillips died: — 

"Wendell Phillips was one of my idols. I long 
to know what Mary Norton said to him about the 
Old South when she met him. I know that God 
said, 4 Well done ! ' This world is much the poorer 
for his absence, but heaven is the richer for his 
presence." 



5i7 

An exercise of heart and mind came to her 
through a call from a lady of saintly life who was 
at a cure with her for several weeks. We must let 
her tell the story: — 

"Dear Mr. Caldwell, — One of the King's Daugh- 
ters has just left me, and I had a blessed season 
with her. She prayed with me, and my faith has 
taken a stronger hold of the arm that moves the 
world, though I am conscious of living close to him 
and of knowing whom I believe, through all these 
days and nights of suffering. This dear disciple of 
our Lord has been healed of God; and I send you 
to-day her printed statement of divine healing. I 
met her first at Dr. Hurd's, where she was under 
his treatment. She was then very feeble indeed 
all the time, and a great sufferer. But she was so 
sweetly patient and resigned that she won the love 
of us all. In January she was taken alarmingly ill ; 
and her sister in Brooklyn was sent for, though it 
hardly seemed probable or possible that she would 
live to greet her. For clays her death was hourly 
expected; but there were a good many praying 
souls in the cure, and she was the subject of un- 
varying faith. Since then she is made every whit 
whole. And do you think God wants me to be 
healed 'through faith in his name'? If you do, 
will you kneel down and ask him to do it now ? " 

When a money letter, sent in her name, was lost 
on the way to her, she said of it : — 

"If it had reached me, I should have given the 
money to an old lady who has need of a warmer 



5i3 

dress and bed-clothing. She is the Lord's, and 
has been his through a long and very useful life; 
and now he is taking care of her through his chil- 
dren. Her family are all waiting for her on the 
other side of the sea that has no returning tide." 

It was a great joy to her to belong to the King's 
Daughters; her silver cross she wore to her latest 
day, and it rested upon the robe of her burial. 
Xo paragraph of her letters did she write more joy- 
fully than when she could say, " Over twelve hun- 
dred bouquets were distributed in Boston last 
summer, from the Eliot King's Daughters." It 
seemed as if her own were more fragrant because of 
them; and one of her bits of advice at this time 
was written to one who was intent on doing- o-ood : 
" One of my theories in regard to helping the needy 
is that, as far as one can do it, heart should speak 
to heart. Then one can help the soul and spirit, 
while he is trying to rest the tired bodies." 

In keeping with this "heart to heart" work and 
life, she gave to a friend, as a ripened thought and 
comfort of her life, a statement which will bear to 
be printed the wide world over : — 

" It is blessed to be measured by the Golden 
Rule, when God holds it" 

And, surely, with what measure she meted to 
others was it meted again to her; and here and 
there it most tenderly is revealed. Many a careful 
ride had she given the poor and sick, many a ticket 
for a journey which could not otherwise have been 
made; many had been the guests at her homes and 



5 i 9 

her table who had been provided with rail tickets 
to and fro. Did God remember her? How ten- 
derly God softened one of her almost deathly rides: 

" As a family, we are under a great many obliga- 
tions to Mr. Sanborn; and, if ever gratitude can be 
a recompense, he will surely have a reward. When 
I was brought from New York to Eliot, he allowed 
the train to stop near the Staples Farm, until I 
could be safely lifted out of the car to the bed on 
which I was brought out to our house. My physi- 
cian, who came on with me, said, if I had been 
brought up from the depot in a carriage, there 
would have been no hope of my reaching the house 
alive. Mr. Sanborn sent up a special car with 
seats removed for my bed, when I had to be taken 
again to the hospital in New York, with a special 
brakeman at each end of the car, ready for emer- 
gencies. Do you wonder we are grateful to him?" 

But this story of our kind God and his care of 
her through his messenger, Superintendent San- 
born, would not be complete, did not Mrs. Farmer's 
pencil write out the gracious sequel to it: — 

" I can see that this experience of kindness upon 
the road was needful to me, that I might feel the 
suffering which the poor and needy ones bear; and 
I do understand this, as never before, since I was 
carted — yes, that is just the word, unless rattled 
will do better — through the streets of New York 
in an ambulance. Heaven help those who cannot 
help themselves! " 



XL. 



THE FATHER'S WISH, 



WHEN Richard Shapleigh was in his prime, 
and had the prospect of a long life, he an- 
ticipated a return to his native Eliot, and deter- 
mined, if he did, to organize the old-fashioned 
Circulating Library. It was a helpful, developing 
power, — that old-time book list; and, though 
limited to subscribers who paid the annual tax, yet 
it elevated and widened the mental and moral scope 
of a good many homes, and was literally the pro- 
genitor of our beautiful public libraries, so gen- 
erously erected by private or town munificence. 
Richard Shapleigh died, to be sure, at forty-four 
years; but his dream of Eliot books must have its 
fulfilment. All dreams come to pass if we wait 
long enough. "Air-castles, " Emerson says, "never 
fall, if they are well propped." Mrs. Farmer 
remembered her father's prophetic gleam of 
shelves of literature, and only wished that her 
bank account was "a million," and then his as well 
as her every heart wish should be established. 
"Dear old town of Eliot," she wrote, "how my 
heart yearns over the people ! There is only one 
thins: I want to do; and that is to work there until 



521 

the call comes to enter the service of the King of 
kings, in the house not made with hands." And 
again to her daughter she said : "I do not expect, 
dear, blessed child, that you will ever feel about 
Eliot as I do; for here is where we first found a 
home of our own, when my father was no longer the 
provider of our every want. Here, by the window 
where I now sit, I saw for the first time your dear, 
blessed father; here is where I first knew the mean- 
ing of the love that was to give color to all the rest 
of my life; and here my promise was given to walk 
the rest of the long path with him who is to-day the 
light of our very eyes. And, when I came back to 
this home for the first time as a proud and happy 
mother, it seemed to me the whole place had been 
glorified by an unseen presence. Later your dear 
baby brother was brought here by your beloved 
father, and laid awhile in this very room, while 
Death and Life were fighting hand to hand to see 
which would bear me away. And my steps have 
turned time and again for thirty-six years hither to 
this Mecca of all my hopes and joys. O my dear, 
blessed child, if you only knew what this home is 
to me! but you never can, until all you have left 
of your mother is her memory and her grave." 

With her multiplied loves for the Eliot of so 
many sacred thoughts, the conviction never rested 
upon her that it was her definite work to fulfil her 
father's idea, and erect a library. She knew that 
God asked of her the Rosemary, which is yet to be 
described, — the Rosemary of her love and tears. 



522 

But the divine movement to secure books for the 
mental interests of the people God reserved for an- 
other. It came in due time. God has his specific 
hand for every specific work. When a joyful move- 
ment came for the foundation shelves, she gave a 
loving and helpful sympathy. Only the revealings 
of the Book of Life will tell how often she sat be- 
fore the Lord in holy communion in regard to it, 
and how tender was her patience and her love. 
The story of the very interesting movement among 
Eliot young people is already in print; and the 
kindly help of names of intellect and fame, — the 
gentle Whittier among them. It is not so much a 
part of Mrs. Farmer's life as to require a blending 
with these pages; yet that soulfulness of sympathy, 
making everything her own, gives her a living 
name among those who have striven for this delight 
in Eliot town. 

In the Newport Daily News, April 14, 1888, is 
a foregleam of the work in which Mrs. Farmer 
''lent a hand." "The Penny Post of Portsmouth, 
N.H., says: 'The readers of the Post will call to 
mind the frequent mention in our Eliot correspond- 
ence of the existing movement looking toward the 
establishment of a public library in that pleasant 
town. It may not be generally known that the in- 
spiration and conduct of the movement are to the 
credit of a lady whose inherited philanthropy re- 
fuses to rest content with limited literary resources 
or to indulge alone in such advantages as are at the 
disposal of Fortune's favorites. The good of the 



523 

community was of the first moment; and the move- 
ment was made, and has been prosecuted in behalf 
of the town. Miss Sarah Farmer, to whom the 
citizens of Eliot are indebted for this most nota- 
ble work, has been indefatigable in promoting the 
enterprise; and the list of subscribers of the library 
already includes over seven hundred persons. For 
the furtherance of the project Miss Farmer has in 
preparation a series of summer fetes, for which have 
been secured the acceptances of several distin- 
guished speakers, while other peculiar and timely 
attractions will give to the festival an eclat rarely 
acknowledged in this vicinity. 

" 'It is proposed to erect a commodious building 
of brick, with such facilities as are appropriate to 
the best enjoyment of literary privileges. This is 
an education in itself; and even the sagacity and 
foresight of its accomplished projector cannot pre- 
dict the full measure of its beneficent influence, as 
in after years her name is affectionately remem- 
bered in connection with so noble a monument.' 

"Miss Farmer, who is mentioned as the origina- 
tor of the movement for the public library in Eliot, 
Me., is well known in Newport, having lived here 
several years with her father, Professor Moses G. 
Farmer, who was electrician at the Torpedo 
Station." 

At the fetes (marvels of interest to thousands) 
it was her joy to be present, and to thank God for 
such willing enterprise. During the preparations 
she gave heart and hand and strength to make 



524 

them successful. Her pen yielded for a time to 
the stern necessities of scores of needles, and what 
she recorded gives us a dear sympathy with one 
who could willingly make herself a sacrifice for 
any work of her Lord : — 

"My dear Annie Caldwell, — Our household 
evangel sends her best love to you, but is not able 
to even say so for herself this morning; and so I 
say it for her. You have no idea what a life we 
are each of us living. Every moment seems 
crowded, and our household work is so far ahead of 
us that we cannot see beginning or end of it. 
The question has been settled : we cannot live for 
ourselves only. And, in order to do anything for 
our blessed Lord and Master, we must let some 
things go that we should otherwise desire to ac- 
complish for ourselves. I do hope God will give 
me a million dollars. I need every penny of it to 
use for him. 

"Next to Eliot the Social Union at Ipswich is 
nearest my heart. I must help you in some way. 
I am much interested in Mrs. Chittenden's spirit 
and zeal, and some time I must see her." 

To Mrs. Soule she writes anew of her affection, 
telling her that she almost feels that she has loved 
her with an everlasting love, so continuously does 
she realize her presence. And then of the Fete 
she says : — 

"I thank you for the love gifts to the Fete; and 
should have written before, but Mr. Farmer has not 
been as well as usual, and that always takes the last 



525 

bit of life out of me. You will never know what 
a comfort it was to me to see you on our grounds 
at the Fete. But I can hardly keep back the tears 
when I think that you did not go through the house, 
or even into my own room, — my little Beulah. 
You will not wonder at my forgetfulness when I 
tell you that I was up the night before until two 
o'clock, doing the last things; and that the daylight 
found me on my feet again. I was so tired when I 
met you that I should have cried like a child, had 
you been alone. Time has dealt so tenderly with 
you that I saw no change, except for the better. I 
could see that the soul was growing and being 
fitted for the home eternal, where your dear soldier 
husband is waiting for you. The things you left 
at the Fete, for Rosemary, never came to light. I 
have no doubt they went to make up the two thou- 
sand dollars which the sales of articles brought. I 
comfort myself with the thought that God's eye was 
on them, and that for some good and wise reason it 
was the way that he wished them to go. His bless- 
ing will rest on you all the same. You ask about 
the bags you so kindly made for the Fete? Yes, 
they were every one sold. You can never know 
the surprise it was to find that the beautiful jewel- 
case was for me. Did the dear Minnie think my 
gems were nice enough for it? I prize it all the 
same." 

Again, as the huge tent was erected in her open 
field for a second Library Fete, she writes to Mrs. 
Derby : — 



526 

"I will not send you the mantel measurements 
until the Fete is over, and then we shall have time 
to think. Everything is rushing now that the 
Fete draws nigh, and I have to keep out of the way 
and not be run down. You have no idea of the 
Babel-like confusion this house is in; and it will 
be getting worse every day until the eventful date 
arrives." 

On the 9th of September, 1889, she writes of 
the occasion to Mrs. Pray; and her letter has 
a plaintive interest now as the daughter, Mrs. 
Day, has recently joined her babes in the skies: — 

"My dear Charlotte, — Your letter finds us pack- 
ing to leave home for a month, hoping to make up 
sleep and to get ourselves into working order for 
the winter. Sarah was so completely run down, 
when the Fete was over, that she went away from 
it all to Dr. Hale's beautiful summer home at 
Matunuck, and tried to rest. She reported herself 
as wonderfully improved; and, when she came back, 
seemed a great deal better. But the numbness 
in her face and side continues, and we cannot but be 
anxious. When you see me, you will find me much 
changed outwardly. But old age can never take 
from me my old-time love for my friends, nor my 
faith and courage. These are parts of my inheri- 
tance, and I shall take them with me into the home 
eternal. 

"I had such a delightful time with your dear 
ones last summer that I have been homesick for 
you all ever since. I had a feeling then that God 



527 

was fitting Mrs. Day for some special work which 
he wanted her to do; and, as the Friends say, c it 
was borne in upon me' that her great trials have 
been sent for this purpose. There is scarcely an 
hour of my waking life that I do not think of her 
and of her little babes also, safe in the upper fold. 
It is so blessed to know of the joy to be revealed 
when we awake in Christ's likeness, and understand 
all his dealings with us." 

And again, to this same dear friend, she com- 
pletes the story of the autumn of 1889: — 

"I long to see you and your dear daughter, Mrs. 
Day, who so wonderfully won my heart, and in this 
love the sweet and winsome baby Charlotte is in- 
cluded. I bless God that you have indeed a son 
in her father. You are a blessed woman. I can- 
not tell you what we shall do next. It depends 
entirely upon Sarah's condition. Three days before 
the Fete opened she gave out completely. Only 
by a strong force of her will was she able to go to 
the tent at the last moment. Since then it has 
been a constant care to keep her from a collapse. 
For this we have left our home and are at Topsfield, 
Mass., out of the way of everybody on earth whom 
we know, hoping to find rest for her father and my- 
self, and to give her the chance, if possible, to re- 
gain the ground. The work she undertook was 
more than ten women ought to have done, and the 
result is in keeping with natural laws. I do not 
think we ought to expect God to work a miracle, 
while we are not taking the true mental and physi- 



528 

cal care. I do not want even to think of the year's 
work. It seems like the nightmare. It has been 
the hardest year of my life, and those who love me 
most say that I have changed more than in any ten 
years before. Late hours, want of sleep, irregular 
living, have left their marks all through me, and I 
am a changed woman. My light-heartedness is a 
thing of the past." 



< y 




XLI. 

ROSEMARY, 1 888. 

ROSEMARY, the tenderest and most soulful 
work of Mrs. Farmer's life, the longing and 
prayer of a score and a half of years! "There has 
never been a work," she wrote to Mary Webber, 
" in which I have been engaged which is to me 
just what this is. It seems as if I were doing it 
for my dear little Baby Clarence, who has been in 
the home above, eight-and-twenty years." A few 
weeks after, she said to Mrs. Hanaford: "Rose- 
mary is my dear little Baby Clarence's monument, 
a thank-offering to God for the gift of an only 
son. It was built wholly from my own funds, 
garnered for this very purpose." 

When the cottage was in process of erection, 
Mrs. Farmer asked several of her friends to sug- 
gest the name by which it should be designated. 
Responses came, and each was appropriate; but in 
the following letter her eye fell upon a cognomen 
which at once fixed itself permanently in her 
thought : — 

" Coventryville, N.Y., July 18, 1887. 
"Dear Mabelle, — After leaving you, we had a 
delightful car-ride to Ipswich, and were full of the 



530 

memories of our wonderful day at Eliot. We told 
the family of the health and cheer of you all, not 
forgetting your sick hand, and of our drive to the 
cottage on the hill. And now let me tell you the 
cutest dream I had this very morning: I was out 
by the rose-bushes, — those bushes by the old stone 
wall before the cottage, — groping about in the 
grass. I was startled by the most unexpected but 
very benign voice of an old man, who had ap- 
proached with noiseless foot. He was tall, in- 
clined to be portly, a beautiful full beard, and his 
thin hair white as newly fallen snow. 

'"Are you looking for blackberries? ' said he. 

"'No, sir. I am seeking a name fpr this memo- 
rial cottage.' 

"'And what do you mean by memorial cottage? ' 

"'Oh, it is the monument of a little dead baby, 
and its name must be pretty and right.' 

"'A little dead baby,' he repeated after me; and 
then he added, 'Why, you should call it Rosemary, 
for that is always in memory of our dead.' I can 
remember no more; but even now I can see the 
holy beauty of that dear old dream face." 

Rosemary was offered as a gift to the trustees of 
the Boston City Mission. When the response 
came, she wrote to her daughter: — 

" My precious Child, — A burden will roll from 
your shoulders when I tell you that the mem- 
bers of the Special Committee of the Missionary 
Society voted unanimously to accept Rosemary. 



53i 

Their wings are broad enough to shield it from all 
harm, and God himself will abide with them. It 
has never given me an anxious thought what they 
would do ; for I knew that God was leading them, 
and that the silent, empty house was as dear to him 
as the apple of his eye. That he should accept 
this, my thank-offering for Baby Clarence, in a 
visible way, humbles me more than anything that 
ever came into my life experience; and I shall be 
able to do more for the needy than I have ever yet 
done. Mr. Waldron says, 'We will all sing the 
doxology now.' My heart has sung it many times. 
I have thought of that blessed home for a long, 
long while. As I read his letter, I repeated old 
'Coronation'; and, when Rosemary is dedicated, 
one of the hymns shall be: — 

' All hail the power of Jesus' name, 
Let angels prostrate fall ; 
Bring forth the royal diadem, 
And crown him Lord of all ! ' 

"Mr. Waldron expects to meet you to-night at 
Cousin James Tobey's. I hope you will sing that 
hymn and the doxology, and then kneel and thank 
God for his tender, loving kindness to your mother. 

"When you came from Ipswich and said that 
Annie Caldwell had asked you what I should do 
with Rosemary if it were not accepted by the Mis- 
sion Society, it came upon me with such a surprise 
that I could not speak. To think what I should 
do next with my thank-offering was like expecting 
dying grace to help me to live. [Faith never has 



532 

any next.~\ The Lord is the shepherd, and he will 
lift the dear little lambs into that sweet, green 
field, where they will grow tender and good." 

Its dedication was on the birthday of her father, — 
May 31, 1888, — a day of the holiest thanksgiving 
that her abounding heart ever knew; — a joy day 
to others also, for some four hundred people gath- 
ered in sympathetic appreciation, when, with God- 
given courage, she delivered its keys to the trus- 
tees, to be used by the society as a part of its 
Fresh Air department of comfort and blessing. 

"Do you know," she wrote with one of her invi- 
tations to the dedication, "what it is to me to look 
upon that finished work ? I have prayed over it 
twenty-eight years; and sometimes it seems as if I 
should be like Simeon of old, ready to depart, 
when I actually commit its keys into the posses- 
sion of the Boston society." 

The local papers, with kindly generosity, gave 
to her Rosemary many pleasant allusions. One of 
the first was a description of the attractive home: 

"A benevolent lady, in memory of a dear little 
babe, to whom this earth was only a stepping-stone 
to heaven, has purchased several acres of land in 
the town of Eliot, Me., and has erected thereon a 
house containing twenty rooms, to be called 'Rose- 
mary,' where tired mothers and their children, and 
overworked shop-girls, can find a temporary respite 
from the burdens of poverty and toil. 

"The location for the purpose designed could 
hardly be better. It is easy of access, six miles 



533 

east of Portsmouth. It crowns an eminence which 
commands a charming view of the New Hampshire 
hills, and close in sight is the Piscataqua River. 
The house is admirably planned, with plenty of 
closet room, convenient kitchen arrangements, and 
a good bath-room. The dining-room is cheerful, 
with four windows, two looking east and two west. 
There are bay windows in several of the rooms, and 
a broad piazza upon three sides. The grounds are 
dotted with apple-trees, and there is an old barn in 
which the children can play on rainy days. Close 
by is a pretty, octagonal structure to be used for 
laundry purposes, thus keeping the heat of washing 
and ironing days away from the main house. A 
large, new cistern, besides pure water from a well 
never known to be dry, and an airy cellar are other 
excellent features." 

To the trustees of the society Mrs. Farmer 
specified: — 

"That its guests shall be selected without any 
regard to creed or color; that it shall be made a 
loving, happy, Christian home, where the Golden 
Rule will be the mainspring of daily action, where 
incense from grateful hearts will be laid morning 
and evening upon the dear home altar, and where 
God himself will love to come in and sup with 
them." 

The day of the dedication was a blended Sabbath 
and holiday. On the early Boston train, seventy 
came who were of the Mission Society. Later, 
friends came from the old Salem home, and the 



534 

villagers joined the ranks. At high noon the 
King's Daughters of Eliot spread a bountiful 
luncheon in a large tent. It was an hour when 
the beauty of the decorated rooms corresponded 
with the Christian cheer of hearts made glad at 
every good work " in his name." 

The dedicatory services followed the luncheon, 
Mr. Francis Keefe, associated in business with 
Professor Farmer, presiding. We give a reporter's 
account : — 

"The services of dedication, to which a goodly 
number of ladies and gentlemen went from Boston, 
Salem, and the vicinity, were held in the open air 
on the grounds immediately back of the home. 
They commenced at about half-past one o'clock 
with the singing of the doxology and prayer. The 
Rev. Mr. Marshall, of Eliot, then read appropriate 
selections of Scripture; and, after a hymn entitled 
'Open the Door for the Children' had been sung 
by a quintette .of boys and girls, a letter was read 
from Rev. Josiah B. Clark, a former minister of 
Eliot, by whom Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had been 
married. After this another hymn was sung, fol- 
lowed by an address from the Rev. Hugh Elder, of 
Salem, who for many years had been Mr. and Mrs. 
Farmer's pastor. He spoke of Mrs. Farmer's work 
for the soldiers in the time of the war, and of her 
thoughtfulness of and care for the poor and needy 
always, and said that this last work of hers in pro- 
viding a summer home for the children and for the 
poor of Boston was simply a fitting crown to all 



535 

that had preceded it. She did all this as a dis- 
ciple of the Lord, and under the inspiration of 
his word, which says, 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto 
one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.' A 
letter from Rev. P. A. Hanaford was next read, 
another hymn sung, and then came a stirring ad- 
dress from Mr. C. C. Coffin, better known as 
'Carleton.' He contrasted the charity of the past 
and of the present times, and spoke of the wonder- 
ful effect which the war had had in evoking among 
our people the spirit of charity and of self-sacrifice 
in the service of others. He spoke of the effect 
which such a charity as was being inaugurated that 
day in Eliot might be expected to have. It would 
attract attention, and would be trusted; it would be 
an example that would draw others into imitation 
of it. Through such charities as these, the spirit 
of Christianity would be exemplified, and the time 
be hastened when Christ would draw all men to 
himself. 

"After this address, the Rev. D. W. Waldron, of 
Boston, introduced Mrs. Farmer, who delivered the 
title-deeds of the property and the keys of the 
home to the Hon. Arthur W. Tufts, of Boston. 
Mr. Tufts is chairman of the board of trustees who 
have been appointed by the Boston City Missionary 
Society to take charge of this noble charity; and 
Mrs. Farmer, speaking evidently with great feel- 
ing, charged him, in a few well-chosen and impres- 
sive words, to see that this charity was faithfully 
administered, and that the Lord's own poor, for 



536 

whom it had been instituted, received the full 
benefit of it. Mr. Tufts in a few words accepted 
the trust, and the Rev. D. W. Waldron led the 
audience in the prayer of dedication." 

The most interesting moment of the occasion 
was when Mrs. Farmer arose, and with a holy 
quietness of spirit presented the keys. Her voice, 
always attractive, was heard in its gentle distinct- 
ness in the utter hush of the assembled friends : — - 

"Mr. Chairman, — Looking to-day at the fulfil- 
ment of a sweet hope so long and tenderly cher- 
ished, I find that deeds, not words, must speak for 
me, as there is no language that can voice my joy 
and thankfulness that the hour has now come when 
I can place in your hands the keys of this dear, 
blessed home. I do it "in his name and for his 
sake,' as a thank-offering to him, and to show my 
love and gratitude for the gift of an only son. Far 
more have I blessed him, through all the years that 
have passed since then, that he took him from my 
arms to his own ere he had become my idol or his 
baby lips had called me 'Mother.' And now, be- 
fore God, angels, and men, I charge you to be ever 
true and faithful to the holy, sacred trust com- 
mitted to-day to your care and keeping. Take its 
interests with you into your every-day life, and 
even to your own dear home-altar. Never, while 
you live, let a single day's record be sealed for 
eternity in which you have not invoked a benedic- 
tion of peace from above to rest upon the work 
being carried on here, abiding with each individual 



537 

who may ever come to this haven of rest which God 
in his infinite mercy and love has so wondrously 
provided for his little ones. Then we may confi- 
dently hope that many a hungry, starving soul will 
be led to feel that this is none other than the 
house of the Lord and the very gate of heaven. 
" I have in my own heart the assurance that he 
has accepted this consecrated gift, so tenderly and 
gratefully offered; that he will hold it in the hol- 
low of his hand, and keep it as the 4 apple of his 
eye,' promising, 'I the Lord do keep it; I will 
water it every moment: lest any hurt it, I will keep- 
it night and day' (Isaiah xxvii. 3). Taking God 
at his word, I leave it in your hands, trusting that 
you are now ready to go forward, doing good, as 
you have opportunity, to all who may ever come 
to Rosemary for rest or refuge from the toilsome 
privations of life, never forgetting the debt of 
love and gratitude due him* through whose un- 
selfish and sacrificing labors of love this home has 
been completely furnished and fully equipped for 
its holy service, thereby crowning the work with 
such a glorious promise of success. That God's 
especial blessing may rest now and ever upon him, 
as well as upon each one who has been an Aaron 
and a Hur in holding up his hands, and contribut- 
ing of their store to his grand and beneficent work, 
shall be a part of my daily prayer until I go to 
meet my dear little angel baby, where all prayers 
are turned to praises. If the Master can say then, 

*Rev. D. W. Waldron. 



538 

4 She hath done what she could,' I shall see him 
as he is, be like him, and be satisfied. Oh, what 
a glorious compensation for the loss of my beauti- 
ful, blue-eyed boy, with whom my very life went 
half away ! " 

Handing Mr. Tufts the keys of Rosemary, she 
added, " In his name and for his sake, Amen." 

Four original hymns were sung during the inter- 
esting hour, two written by the dear friends, Mrs. 
Webber and Mrs. Mason, who had contributed of 
their verses on all her special days, and one by Miss 
Larkin, a later but welcome name. The Hymn of 
Consecration was from her own hand and heart. 

When the day and its gladness was over, no 
wonder she said : — 

"God is good to let me live until I have laid the 
foundation of my baby's monument. It is one 
that will never crumble or decay; and streams of 
good will flow on from it when my hands can no 
longer direct their course." 

And she remembered always the words of "the 
dear old lady who visited Rosemary, and while 
there said, 'Oh, how near this home seems to 
heaven!'" 

In a report of the hallowed occasion the Ports- 
mouth Journal said : — 

"Mrs. Farmer and her whole family have done 
good constantly, day by day, ever since they took 
up their permanent residence in Eliot, and have 
not hesitated to put their hands deeply into their 
own pockets in furtherance of their many beneficent 



539 

designs. As a summer resort for little people, 
tired mothers, shop-girls, and others, she has built 
Rosemary during her lifetime, when she could 
enjoy the personal knowledge of the help her be- 
nevolence was giving to those in whose lives joy is 
not too common a quantity." 

To her friend Mrs. Soule, dear and dearer still, 
as her days were more rapidly telling, she wrote a 
fuller letter of Rosemary than to any of her corre- 
spondents : — 

"Dear Rosemary! It is a Christly home in 
every sense of the word, and good seed is sown 
there daily. Eternity alone will reveal the influ- 
ences of that sacred place. You never in your life 
saw a happier group of people than those received 
this season at Rosemary. At once they lay down 
the weary load of care, and enjoy everything that 
is so abundantly provided for them. They have 
the wholesomest food, and all they want of it. 
You would think, if you saw them, that Rosemary 
belonged to them. And well they may feel so. It 
was built for them; and its seven acres of land 
were given to them unconditionally. They have 
twelve hammocks, as many swings, two teeter- 
boards, and there is a grand old barn for rainy 
days. The great tent has camp seats, settees, and 
tables. I tell Mr. Farmer that he ought to be very 
thankful that I do not go over to Rosemary and 
stay all the time. 

"Will you be surprised when I tell you that I 
stood before the company on Dedication Day, and 



540 

made a speech. At first I said that I could not. I 
asked God what he would have me do. He said, 
'Open your mouth, and I will fill it.' Now I am so 
glad that I had the opportunity to say that the gift 
was a thank-offering for the birth of an only son. If 
that little baby had lived, there would have been no 
room nor thought in my heart for the many mothers 
whose poor little babies are dying in the city's 
stifling tenements for need of fresh air. 

"After we had finished the house, it was fur- 
nished wholly by friends. How beautifully it has 
been done! I long to have you walk through the 
house, and see its forty-two guests. The sick and 
tired mothers, as well as poor little babies, gain 
wonderfully in the two weeks they are there. And 
this work is going on and on, after my tired hands 
are folded forever, and I am with the saved above. 

"Rosemary is three miles from our own cottage, 
but I can almost see it from my window. It is 
easily seen when passing through in the cars, and 
its stars and stripes are always floating from the 
staff." 

When the season came that she could count the 
registered names of six hundred who had been 
guests at this gracious House Beautiful, she said: 

"Do you know what a real heart comfort that 
home has been to me? Sometimes it seems as if 
the burden of baby's loss grows lighter and easier 
to bear, since I have seen that so many babies are 
spared to their mothers through God's call to mine. 
What a sweet-voiced an^el it must be that makes 



54i 

a baby willing to leave his mother. Dear little 
soul, how I long to see him! Wait, poor soul, till 
the earth-work is done/' 

When Rosemary had been opened, and its pleas- 
ant existence had become a veritable fact, Dr. 
William Hale, of Dover, sent to the public press 
this little waif, which he denominated "Mother 
Rosemary to the Children." It pleased him ever 
after to speak of Mrs. Farmer as "Mother Rose- 
mary," an epithet which she never rejected in 
heart or word. 

"MOTHER ROSEMARY" TO THE CHILDREN. 

We are all God's dear children, 

His love doth all enfold, 
This world his House Beautiful, 

His sunshine is our gold. 

Children, thank God for the sunshine, 

And thank him for the grass, 
And thank him for each dear day 

He kindly brings to pass. 

Thank him for food and shelter, 

Thank him for raiment warm, 
For winter and for summer, 

Thank him for calm and storm. 

Thank him for field and forest, 

Thank him for shore and sea, 
Thank him for love unfailing 

That boundless flows for ye. 

Make each day sweetly sav'ry 

With praise raised unto him; 
Let each eve be a prayer, 

And each glad morn a hymn. 



542 

Praise him, ye happy children, 
With thought and word and deed, 

Who doth your wee heads number, 
And soft your footsteps lead. 

Praise him each blithe child-morning 

For grace his will to do ; 
Praise him for hearts — his best gift — 

That love ye, warm and true. 

God is " Our Father," children ; 

He for each child hath need ; 
He giveth and he taketh, 

Unto our inmost need. 

What though we lack earth riches ? 

He loves us as himself; 
And for our lack he giveth 

Enough of his dear self. 

Only a few weeks before Mrs. Farmer went to 
her babe in heaven, one of the Boston missionaries, 
dating a letter from Pleasant Avenue, Roxbury, 
wrote of the death of a most excellent woman who 
had rested her tired body the summer before at 
Rosemary. She closed her painful and yet most 
joyful story with a reference to the cottage, which 
certainly came to Mrs. Farmer in the sufferings of 
her final weeks as a rewarding word, spoken of 
God, through one of his earnest children : — 

"I wish I were able to tell you, dear Mrs. P^ar- 
mer, how highly we, missionaries, prize Rosemary, 
— your blessed gift to our poor people. I often 
wonder what we did, how we got along without 
its sheltering care for our weary, worn-out mothers, 
and restless, feeble little ones, until you provided 



543 

this loving, Christian home for their rest and re- 
freshment. They look ahead to it and back to it 
through the whole year; and their lives are made 
better, as well as happier, by its Christian, uplift- 
ing influences. The good Lord bless you with 
every earthly comfort and every heavenly grace, 
until you hear his gracious words, 4 Ye did it unto 
me. 9 " 

The kindly friends who have followed the history 
of Rosemary with thought, prayer, and help, will 
read with interest the following from Our Sunday 
Afternoon : — 

"FROM THE COTTAGE. 

"A few days ago the editor of Our Sunday After- 
noon wrote to Rosemary, asking for a letter from 
some one of those stopping there which should tell 
us just what we want to hear about the work and 
the play in that pleasant place. 

"Back came this touching and cordial letter, of 
which we can't afford to lose a word: — 

" Rosemary, Eliot, Me. 
"Readers of 'Our Sunday Afternoon ' : 
''''Dear Friends, who take such a kindly interest 
in our beautiful home, how I wish you all could see 
it ! Words are so weak to describe our lovely 
views and charming surroundings, you must all 
come and see it, and judge for yourselves; but, as 
I know that many can't, I'll do the best I can to tell 
you just what a fine time we are having. We be- 



544 

long to the second company that came to the cot- 
tage; and, after a fine ride from Boston, we reached 
Eliot, and before the train stopped they told us 
we could see the roof of the cottage. And so we 
could, away up on a hill, looking down upon us 
as if to say, l My doors and halls are all open to 
receive you, dear children.' Many kind friends 
were at the depot to take those of us who were too 
old or weak to walk. The rest ran ahead, with 
shouts of glee. At the door of the cottage we were 
met by more friends. Friends seemed to be every- 
where. The 'Lady Mother,' as the matron, Mrs. 
Snell, is called (and 'Lady Mother' is a splendid 
name for her: she would be mother to the whole 
world if she could), welcomed us all, old and 
young; and soon our rooms were given us. And 
such pretty rooms, too! The walls tinted, soft 
white beds, bright-colored rugs on the floor, nice 
chamber sets, handsome commode covers, pin-cush- 
ions, and duster-bags, candlesticks, books, vases, 
for every room. And, when we had exclaimed and 
4 oh'd ' and fc ah'd ' over our views from each win- 
dow, we went down to such a supper as you don't 
often see, — the sweet bread and butter (that smelt 
of clover blossoms), cake and strawberries, and big 
pitchers of milk, and, as fast as the pitchers were 
empty, filled up again; and didn't we eat! I for- 
got to tell you, as we went into the cottage, we saw 
an old gentleman sitting on the piazza in a big arm- 
chair, and near him a sweet-faced old lady, and they 
were in the dining-room while we were eating; and 



545 

then we found out it was that dear lady, Mrs. Far- 
mer, that gave the cottage for all tired mothers and 
children and girls to rest in, and did it in memory 
of a dear child of her own that went away many 
years ago to God's beautiful home. She seemed to 
be so happy to see us all; and no one could look at 
her and not love her, she had such a sweet and 
peaceful face. And Mr. Waldron here, there, and 
everywhere, — everybody in Boston, and you might 
almost say in Massachusetts, knows his joyful face. 
Oh, everything was so happy! But I must tell you 
of outdoors, only I can't forget the flowers in every 
place you could put them, — daisies, wild roses, 
grasses, ferns, and a great many we didn't know the 
names of. There were forty-three in our company; 
and that's the number that comes every fortnight, 
the same day the others leave. We don't any one 
of us want to go; but we must, so others can have 
a good time, too. Well, outdoors we all went, 
over the wide, beautiful grounds, some to swing 
(there are thirteen swings), some to tilt, and all 
the sixteen hammocks were full. There was a 
large tent on the grounds, and croquet sets; and we 
had a splendid picnic in that tent, with ice-cream 
and all things that taste good, and so many help- 
ings of ice-cream, you don't know. If it ain't a 
paradise for children, I don't know where you will 
find one. Why, we have lunches every morning 
and afternoon, all kinds of crackers and ginger cakes, 
and lemonade ever so often on holidays; but it is 
nice and cool here when it is hot and dry in the 



546 

city. And you never saw such a place for singing. 
Everybody sings. Lady Mother sings from morn- 
ing to night, the cook sings, and out in the laundry 
you'll hear singing; and we sing out on the piazza 
evenings, and always at prayers. But one thing you 
would never, never tire of are the beautiful views 
from our broad piazza, that is so comfortably pro- 
vided with settees, large and small chairs; and you 
can take any of the many books and papers ready 
for the guests, and sit and look and look at the blue 
hills in the distance and the lovely green valleys, 
with the pretty farm-houses dotted here and there, 
I heard one old lady say — and there are ever so 
many old ladies here, and we love them all very 
much — that it made her think about Job, when 
Satan said the reason he was a good man was be- 
cause God had put all good things around him ; and 
the old lady said she thought a man might be good, 
like Job, in this place. Wa'n't that a good thing 
to say? 

"Most every one goes to the top of Great Hill, 
back of the barn, to see 'all the world,' as one 
little girl said, from the top. She said she knew 
the world was round now, as the geography said 
at school ; for she had seen it. Why, we can see 
the Atlantic Ocean, and the sail coming and 
going, and the Piscataqua River, and the White 
Mountains away off, and — Oh, dear, I am tired 
telling, and I have only told so little; but every 
one says, k God bless the kind hearts that thought 
of so much comfort and joy for tired souls.' Do 



547 

just as many of you, dear friends, as can come to 
see Rosemary. 

"Good-by, dear friends. 
"One of the Little 'Tired Souls. ' " 

When the records of Rosemary for 1891 (the 
year Mrs. Farmer went away) were completed, 
more than a thousand guests — mothers and little 
children, shop-girls and tired women — had re- 
ceived two weeks of rest and shelter beneath the 
hallowed roof. 

ROSEMARY ON THE HILL. 

Beyond the meadows flecked with golden wheat 
And mottled kine and fruitful orchards, where 

The cooling zephyrs bring wild odors sweet, 
Rosemary makes the picture bright and fair. 

Its porch bids Welcome to the worthy poor 
From far-off city's smoke and din and gloom ! 

Those who go in through its wide open door 
Find joy and comfort in that hillside home, 

Environed with the emerald-bannered trees, 
Whose shadows reach far out upon the lawn, 

And ferns as lithe as palms stirred by the breeze, 
And daisies mock the stars before the dawn. 

Time's history records the living deeds 
Of her whose charity, love, and good will 

Has built, without regard to sect or creeds, 

That dear Memorial Cottage on the hill. 

T. P. Cressey. 
Dover, N.H., Aug. 6, 1889. 



XLII. 



THE WESTERING SUN. 



" /^\UR time is getting very short," wrote Mrs. 

v_/ Farmer to Mrs. Soule in 1890; "and only 
by doing good to the poor and needy can we lay up 
treasures in heaven. I must have treasures there, 
or the angels will not be glad to see me." 

She realized intensely the shortening time as the 
dearly loved began, one by one, to go into the Un- 
seen before her. When Margaret Merritt, droop- 
ing with her fatal illness, went South to test the 
benefits of a climate new to her, Mrs. Farmer said: 

" I must send you a God-speed from our little trio. 
When we went to Newfoundland, you said that 
enough prayers would follow the steamer to bring 
every passenger into port; and this comforts me 
now as you turn from home. God be with you all 
the way. There will not be a waking hour that 
you will not know my presence near you." 

And, when Margaret was in New Orleans, she 
sent her, for her cheer, chapters of Eliot life, 
which to the pilgrim were to be among her latest 
readings : — 

" I am so thankful that Mr. Farmer has this quiet 
home to rest in, where old associations are all so 



549 

pleasant and as uplifting to him as to his 'spouse.' 
Sarah is almost too happy in the possession of a. 
two-page letter from our dear old Whittier to come 
down to the daily duties of our home life. I wish 
you could have seen her face, perfectly radiant with 
happiness, when the letter came. You shall read 
his letter when you can come to us. Dear old 
man, how we love him!" 

And then she turns her pen to a picture of do- 
mestic life which savors indeed of New England 
homes : — 

" Our Barry dog is a splendid creature, and is 
inexpressibly dear to us all. He is very intelli- 
gent; and the beautiful Angora ('Vasca') is very 
happy with four dear little babies, to whom she is 
as faithful as a human mother. I pity those who 
think dumb animals have no other life to live. I 
expect to find all mine safe on the Happy Hunting 
Grounds." 

Her allusions to "God's dumb children," as she 
called her domestic animals, was sometimes quite 
frequent : — 

"The dog and cat are quite enough for me to 
look after; and you will think Barry needs a tutor 
to teach him good behavior when I tell you that he 
upset the dining-room table with a lighted lamp 
upon it, which did not break, thank God for that. 
No Canton ware was upon the table, and but few 
dishes of any kind. He was as frightened as he 
was when 'Homer' jumped at him, and there is no 
danger of his repeating the experiment." 



5SO 

The professor writes another story of Barry, the 
delightful Saint Bernard, who gets more loves than 
rods forever : — 

" We went out the back road for our drive yester- 
day, and Barry brought himself into disgrace by 
chasing a sheep and disturbing the owner. Mr. 
Keefe had hard work to get him away, and deliver 
the frightened creature. The naughty dog thereby 
forfeited his right to go with this individual again." 

Mrs. Farmer adds a postscript to her husband's 
pen: "Mr. Keefe whipped Barry with his hand 
very hard yesterday. I think it hurt Mr. K. and 
myself more than it did Barry; but father said, 
'Serves Barry right.'" 

Another little "dumb life" came into her thought 
in a late letter to her daughter: — 

"The day is perfect, and with its sweet, cooling 
air comes strength to your tired mother. I will 
not write you much, dear; for I want to stay out on 
the veranda. A dear little sparrow has made her 
nest in the vines that your blessed old grandmother 
trained at the side of our front door, and this morn- 
ing I see one little blue egg in the nest. The 
mother bird takes kindly to me, as I gave her some 
of my hair to line her nest. As soon as she saw it, 
she flew away without touching it, came back in a 
moment with him, and they talked together a little. 
Then he stood on the branch, and pulled the hair 
towards her; and she fixed it in the nest. And 
now she has a lovely home in which to rear her 
babies. There is another tiny nest in the lilac at 



55i 

the side door, and in that nest there are six eggs. 
How can the dear little sparrow cover them all?" 

But the hour came when bits of rural life in 
Eliot cottage could no more be written to one, at 
least. Margaret Merritt passed along: — 

"For forty years I have leaned upon her, and 
there has been no joy in our home and hearts that 
she has not shared. She saw Rosemary only once; 
but her heart was in the work as really and truly as 
was mine, though not in the same way. I feel sure 
that she will be one of its guardian angels, and 
may do more for it now than she could if she had 
been spared to us. She has left me one hundred 
dollars to dispense in charity in any way that may 
seem best to me." 

To the children of her loved and departed Mary 
Webber she wrote : — 

" I am forced to admit that I cannot work as I 
used to. My right hand has been disabled more 
than two years; and I have to hold my pencil in 
such an unnatural way that it cramps my finger, 
and I have gradually given up writing letters even 
to my own family. 

And yet the "gradually giving up" was hardly 
perceptible. To her latest day she was livingly in- 
terested in every movement of welfare. And cer- 
tainly people did not give her up. In a conjoint 
letter of the father and mother to the daughter in a 
brief absence, we have the picture of an Eliot day: 

"My dear Sarah, — Business was good yesterday. 
I had only twenty-six callers. Mr. Waldron sent 



552 

your mother for perusal ten letters which he had re- 
ceived from the guests at Rosemary. It would do 
you good to read them. I wish I were with you, to 
drive with you about old Hanover, Lebanon, White 
River, Norwich, and Orford also, where I heard the 
great Daniel address a political gathering in good 
old Whig times, when we went up from Dartmouth 
in a hay-cart, and shouted our throats hoarse and sore 
for 'Tippecanoe and Tyler, too.' This was the last 
time I heard the voice of Dartmouth's greatest son. 
I say greatest; though, where so many have been 
great, it almost seems invidious to single out any 
one, but he was in his day the great star of the 
political sky." 

To this was a marginal addition in the loving- 
heart of the mother: — 

" My precious Child, — Did not your dear father 
have a time of it yesterday? I kept up through the 
forenoon; but at noon I gave out, and had to go to 
bed. To-day, if I can sit up, I shall go to Rose- 
mary. Yesterday a coach from Portsmouth drove 
by, inquiring the direct road to the cottage. Give 
my love to Mr. Moody and his wife and the dear 
old mother. Tell him I want his blessing and 
prayers for the dear Rosemary. Beg of him to 
come to Eliot in August, where the fields are ripe 
for the harvest, but the laborers are few." 

How sensible her ever-present help was may be 
gathered from one who wrote to her from the 
Boston Hospital in an hour when she had the need 
not only of the sympathy of God, but of his 



553 

sympathy as he reveals it through hearts made 
divine by his love: — 

"June i, 1890. 
"My dear Mrs. Farmer, — When mother came to 
the hospital to see me, I did all I could to keep up 
her courage. We went to see the patients, and I 
assured her I was not afraid. But, then, / wanted 
the help of a friend; and there was no one here to 
meet my need, though all were kind. So I read 
your letter, and prayed to our Father in heaven to 
be my help ; and he was indeed. In the morn- 
ing I was calm, and made myself ready. At the 
last moment I read your letter again, and it com- 
forted me as your real presence. In my 'Day unto 
Day ' I read, 'He shall come unto us as the rain ' ; 
and at the same instant the rain was pouring into 
the street. Then the ether was administered; but, 
when consciousness came, my first thought was, 'As 
thy day, thy strength shall be,' and then instantly I 
thought of you." 

Not strange, was it, that the friend of everybody 
in sorrow or need should have been as a "real pres- 
ence," or that her letters were full of solace, even 
in hospital days? 

Mrs. Farmer's last months, though full of pains, : 
were also never so full of comforts. In May, 1890, 
she made her latest visit to Newport, the home of 
ten thousand memories, and, her Eden excepted, 
the most delightful home of her heart. On the 7th 
of May she wrote to a classmate of her daughter : — 



554 

"Yours of May 5, my dear Nellie, finds Sarah 
very busy on some problems for her father. So I 
write for her to tell you how sorry we are to hear of 
your illness, and how earnestly we shall pray that 
the dear, loving Father will reveal himself to you 
in this hour of trial, and that the sickness may not 
be unto death, but for the glory of God. w It light- 
ens the stroke to draw near to the Hand that holds 
the rod.' What a comfort to think that vou found 
rest in his promise before the trial came! Now, 
my dear friend, we shall lift you up in the arms of 
our tender love, and claim for you these promises 
each day. 4 As thy day, so shall thy strength be.' 
They come to us new every morning, and }'ou have 
only to ask for his help to find that he has heard 
you while you were yet speaking. Whatever comes, 
hold on to your courage, and all will be well.'' 

On the 20th of May she writes to an old gentle- 
man of her aunt Isabel's approaching birthday. It 
was an event of great delight to her in anticipation, 
and its memory satisfied her as long as she lived: 

"My dear, blessed old aunt Isabel S. Knowlton 
will be ninety years old, if she lives until June 3, 
1890; and that will be two weeks from to-day. 
Her home is with her youngest daughter, Mrs. 
John D. Frost; and Mr. and Mrs. Frost are to 
give Aunt Isabel a birthday party. All the dear 
ones, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, 
nephews, and nieces are invited. Now, I want of 
you a poem? It would make Aunt Isabel very 
happy. We shall leave Newport for Eliot next 



555 

Tuesday, May 27, baby's birthday in heaven. He 
has been there thirty years. If I had Aunt Isabel's 
grace and patience, this trial would not have been 
so hard to bear. She has walked with God as truly 
as Enoch did, and I do not know but she will leave 
us as he did by translation. It does seem as if 
God will take her home in some special way. 
She speaks and prays in meeting, as she did forty 
years ago. When she is at our Eliot home, I go up 
to her bedroom every night to hear her pray. She 
talks with God just as she does with people whom 
she loves. She is the last of seven children. My 
sweet sainted mother was her sister; and, when 
mother went to God, Aunt Isabel stood by her 
coffin, and kissed her cold dead face, and then she 
said: 'We never had a joy or sorrow, sister, that 
we didn't share together; and now I wish you joy 
that you are face to face with the Saviour whom 
you loved and served so many years. In a little 
while, dear soul, I shall join you.' 

"Oh, what a sad heart will be mine if I am left 
on earth when my dear Aunt Isabel is taken! Do 
write her the poem, won't you? And, besides, I 
want you to preach your next sermon with her in 
your thought. Let the subject be "The Blessed- 
ness of Growing Old Gracefully,' and then send 
the manuscript to me to give to her; and the next 
time you come to Eliot you shall see for yourself 
how beautiful Aunt Isabel is. Do come quickly, 
lest she slip away to heaven. And I may go, too." 

Another joy awaited Mrs. Farmer in the gracious 
month of May, Her own pen must tell it: — 



556 

"May 30. On my own dear father's birthday, 
and the anniversary of Rosemary's dedication, I 
stood in dear Whittier's Amesbury home. Does 
it not seem to you too good to be true? We 
came over the road from Topsfield; and, knowing 
that Whittier was in Amesbury, we stopped at his 
door on our way to the hotel, and made an appoint- 
ment to call the next day. Sarah went in before 
we did. When we knew her call would be over, 
we drove to the door for her. She came to us at 
once to say he wished me to go in and see the por- 
traits of his mother and his sister Elizabeth. Was 
there ever so much in a day before?" 

"June 1. We reached home last night. To-day 
we find in our mail the verses for my blessed Aunt 
Isabel. I think you received a baptism to write 
them, or the benediction of some saint is resting 
upon you. I could write a week about that royal 
woman, did I only have the strength. But I am 
very tired." 

She was one of the pleasant birthday guests at 
the home of the nonogenarian. Seventy relatives 
and five clergymen made both the dinner hour and 
the intellectual feast delightful. A little reminis- 
cence of this dear Aunt Isabel, written by herself, 
is interesting as a memorial of her domestic days: 

"No one ever had a pleasanter husband than I. 
We lived together fifty-nine years. In all that 
time he 'never spoke an unpleasant word to me. I 
was once surrounded by a large family of children, 
nine in number. One died in infancy. Eight 



557 

grew up, and made a public profession of religion. 
Three of those are gone before me. When my eld- 
est daughter died, aged thirty-two, she left three 
children, the oldest four years, the youngest nine 
days. I was anxious to know what could be done 
with the baby. The day Isabel was to be buried, I 
went alone into the room, where she lay in her cas- 
ket, put my hand on her pale face, kissed her, and 
turned to leave the room with an anxious heart and 
thought, 'What will be done with the babe? ' The 
Bible was on the table. I sat down, opened it, and 
read, 'Thou shalt in any wise let the dam go, 
and take the young to thee'' (Deut. xxii. 7). I shut 
the book, left the room; but I felt as though a 
voice spake to me, and I knew I must take the 
babe home with me, and I did. She was with 
me twenty-one years." 

At the family assembly on this aged lady's birth- 
day Miss Farmer read the verses which her mother 
had solicited: — 

" I cannot think what it would be, 

Upon the holy summit standing, 
To overlook the land and sea, 

A stretch of ninety years commanding, 
And say, ' This very way of God 
I, step by step, have upward trod ! ' 

" And yet upon this sunset height, 

With harvest sheaf and Christly treasure, 

A gentle face reflects to-day 

The light of life we cannot measure ; 

Life golden in its upward trend ; 

Earth, heaven, and heart, a holy blend. 



558 

" A life which, like a Presence, charms 
Where'er its quiet influence hovers, — 

A Presence written not in psalms, 

Or book with clasps and gilded covers. 

All that makes life lips cannot say, 

Yet she reveals it every day. 

" So from our standpoint, looking high 
And higher still in our progressing, 

We greet to-day the ninety years 

To us fraught with her love and blessing; 

And from our hearts, for love's sweet sake, 

A songful offering we make. 

" How beautiful her life that makes 

Its every duty highest pleasure, 
And finds in simple every day 

The light and strength of heavenly treasure; 
Its discipline a holy trust, — 
A diamond polished with its dust. 

" And as we look upon her brow 

Where ninety years have left their traces, 
And then turn backward to the smiles 

That sparkle on our children's faces, 
We're glad her benedictions fall 
On oldest unto youngest, — all. 

" And precious through the livelong days 
Will be the memories, never ending, 

Of standing side by side to-day 

With her whose age with heaven is blending. 

The light falls on her through the gate : 

We, too, receive it for her sake. 

" Once, when a last good-by was said, 
She stood beside her sister,* sleeping. 
'You've always been my joy,' she breathed : 
' This shall be a joy, not weeping.' 

Mrs. Olive Shapleigh. 



559 

And we of her the same can say. 
Dear heart! you comfort us alway. 

" And so we love the ninety years 

Which God so lovingly has given : 
We gladly treasure all their smiles, 

And all they antedate of heaven. 
A blessing on the natal day, — 
The happiest, best of all the way." 

"Your letter, dear Nellie, from Topsfield is a 
comfort and gladness to us. It is much to be 
thankful for that you are in that dear old town of 
such precious memories to you and your patient, 
loving mother. There will be brightness for you, 
too ; and I bless you for the brightness you brought 
into my life by sending to us your dear Topsfield 
friends. I became much attached to those people. 
They did all they could to make me happy; but, 
oh, how little they knew what a burden of care was 
resting upon me, — a burden that only God could 
lighten! 

"And now there will be more brightness for you 
and your dear mother in your anticipated week at 
Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua. For our dear Whit- 
tier is there; and so is our dear friend, Mr. Dow, 
the artist. He is like a son to me. There will be 
a lawn party, too, the week you expect to be there; 
and, if you are not able to be out all the afternoon, 
your dear mother will be eyes for you, and let you 
rest within doors with Whittier. Think, dear 
child, what it will be to you to have the poet under 
the same roof with you! He is as lovely as he can 



560 

be. And you can look from the window, too, and 
see Miss Olea Bull dance the Spring (Norwegian) 
Dance. You will hear some grand music from her. 
She is the only daughter of Ole Bull, who played 
the violin as no other person ever did. I do not 
think you ever saw such willowy grace as there is 
in that child's every movement. She is wonder- 
fully made. 

"You will get a new lease of life at Greenacre. 
At sunset the sky is reflected in the Piscataqua for 
miles above and below the house. Whittier said 
the other day, 'It is the pleasantest place I was 
ever in.' There is an air about Greenacre unlike 
any other hotel where I have been entertained." 

To a Greenacre guest she sent a brief pencil : — 

"You have never spent a quiet hour with me. 
The days slip away quickly at the Inn as well as 
at Bittersweet. A new party comes to Rose- 
mary to-morrow, and I want you to go over 
with me and help receive them. It will gladden 
your heart to welcome Christ's little ones to that 
blessed haven of rest and refreshment to soul and 
body." 

We did not know it, but she was receiving that 
day the last of the happy companies who were ever 
to see her face or be welcomed by her magnetic 
voice and smile at Rosemary. But she will be in 
a better open door even than Rosemary when we 
next behold her, to welcome the scores who loved 
her for her divine goodness, and who were always 
made better by the power of her life and benedic- 
tions. 



5 6i 

The while that she was making her latest days a 
comfort to others her own life grew mellower as 
the tidings came to her that Caroline A. Mason 
had preceded her to the Eternal ; and most kindly 
did Mr. Mason, remembering the fellowship of the 
two souls, write to her: — 

•" My dear Mrs. Farmer, — Though I have never 
had the pleasure of seeing you, I deem that I am 
warranted in addressing you as though you were an 
old and familiar friend by virtue of your very kindly, 
sympathetic letter and by the kinship of spirit be- 
tween yourself and my wife, which from your first 
acquaintance with each other bound your souls to- 
gether by the golden chain of sympathy, which 
never knew a tarnish nor a broken link. Mrs. 
Mason always spoke to me of you in terms of the 
highest respect for your character, with warm affec- 
tion, and with deep compassion for your sufferings ; 
and you may be assured that your generous expres- 
sion of admiration, of esteem, and of love for her 
would have been reciprocated in language not less 
clear and pronounced than yours, were she here to 
respond." 

And then, with words concerning the last months 
of this genuine poetess, he closes with not only 
the husbandly, but the most appreciative regard for 
the memory of one whose name had grown so 
familiar to the public ear: — 

" I hardly need say it is most grateful and con- 
soling to me on my own account to receive from 



562 

you and from many others, our best and most es- 
teemed friends, letters expressive of warm and gen- 
erous sympathy for myself in the sad deprivation 
of the companionship of my dear wife; but more 
precious still are they to me for the expressions 
of a just appreciation of the rare excellence and 
beauty of character and gifts of one whose good 
name is, and deservedly, dear to me as my own 
life. It often occurs to me to think that, if in the 
divine ordering it is hers to know the feelings and 
the acts of those she has left behind, it must be 
the crowning felicity of her earthly remembrances to 
witness the kind and loving appreciation with which 
she is uniformly regarded. Charles Mason." 

And shall we close this chapter of the setting 
sun of this beautiful life with no reference to a 
fresh aspiration that crept into Mrs. Farmer's life 
when Rosemary had been given to God, and when 
her prayers and arms were reaching out unto Christ 
and his lambs? It would hardly seem that her life 
had a setting sun. Her days seemed literally a 
succession of rising suns that never knew any 
setting. 

" My precious Child, — My father used to say, 
1 Everything comes in time to those who have the 
patience to wait.' God has wonderfully endowed 
me with this patience to wait for what I should 
otherwise feel I must have this minute. The one 
thing that I desire to do now is to build a Sani- 
tarium on Sunset Hill (Eliot); and, if I can get 



563 

the land, that will be the first step toward it. I 
know all about that hill ; it was upon its sum- 
mit my sister Mary wished to be buried. If God 
wants me to carry out my present plans, he will let 
me secure the hill; and, if we do, I want you to be 
one of the witnesses of the deed; if I send you 
a check, it will be for the full amount." 

. Sunset Hill was secured, and without doubt it 
will yet be a home for a class of sufferers who need 
tenderness and love more than medicine. 



XLIII. 



A SUNDAY MEMORY. 



THE summer of 1890 was to have its golden 
light and to be filled with a holy quiet and 
fulness of spiritual joy which perhaps no other year 
had ever known. Her fellowships as well as her 
glimpses of the outer world were to be ripples of 
gladness. 

In the opening of Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua, 
a mile from her own cottage, she had taken a great 
delight. She knew that its summer guests were in 
a thousand ways to give tone and impulse to the 
Eliot of her many associations. When Whittier, 
gentle in words and demeanor, whom she had loved 
as a poet and still more as a sympathizer in 
the uplifting of one of her soulful projects, the 
Free Library, chose the inn for his retreat and rest 
during the summer heats, she felt a holy content. 
It seemed as if the heavenly Father was contributing 
to her own personal gladness, besides adding to the 
intellectual and social uplifts which a rural parish 
peculiarly appreciates. A few of these days of her 
gladness crept into the public press; and to those 
who loved Mrs. Farmer in life and now bless her 
memory there will be a grateful interest in the 



565 

reading of the names and pleasant festivities of her 
latest summer, and of a quiet Sunday morning es- 
pecially, when she sat with the guests of Greenacre 
at a peaceful table of the Lord for the manna which 
means more to the soul than material bread. 

Of the increase of social life we gather a few 
prints from the column of the local reporter of 
Greenacre : — 

"Its quiet and tasteful appointments draw to it 
many noted people. Mrs. Lippincott ('Grace 
Greenwood '), of Washington, was there last week, 
a guest of John G. Whittier; and this week Miss 
Harriet McEwen Kimball is taking a much needed 
rest as a guest of the distinguished poet, who has 
been her lifelong friend. His friend, Rev. J. W. 
Atwood, of Providence, R.I., who recently offici- 
ated at St. John's and at Christ's Church in Ports- 
mouth, is also with him." 

"Mr. Arthur W. Dow, of Ipswich, Mass., the 
young artist who has lately been receiving much 
attention in New York by his exhibition of paint- 
ings, is at Greenacre, sketching." 

"Miss Olea Bull and Miss Amelia Shapleigh, of 
Cambridge, Mass., have arrived; and Mrs. Ole 
Bull, together with her brother, Mr. J. G. Thorp, 
Jr., and wife (a daughter of Longfellow), and Miss 
Lauder, the violinist, are expected to-day." 

"The Eliot Library Association has received a 
gift of twenty-six books from Mr. Joseph Cartland 
and wife of Newburyport, Mass., who were at 
Greenacre several weeks. John G. Whittier has 



566 

also just sent fourteen more new books. His in- 
terest in the library is unceasing and his generos- 
ity unbounded." 

The very being of Mrs. Farmer responded to all 
this life of most quiet intellectual beauty; and, 
when one Sabbath morning she found herself able 
to drive out to an impromptu hour of worship in 
the beautiful Greenacre parlor, she sat in the still- 
ness which her deafness imposed, but the faces of 
the guests were to her open books. She read upon 
them messages of the Lord. We give the re- 
porter's account of that morning hour: — 

" Eliot, Me., August 6. 

"The Bible reading by Rev. Augustin Caldwell 
at Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua on Sunday morning 
was most impressive. Many of the cottagers came 
in, and those who were present will not soon forget 
that scene before them. In his favorite corner sat 
Whittier, with clasped hands and bowed head. By 
his side, in the simple but dignified dress of a 
Quakeress, was his cousin, Mrs. Gertrude Cart- 
land. The peace which shone from her face and 
was breathed like an atmosphere all about her im- 
pressed all who saw her. Not less uplifting was 
the influence of that dear saint, Mrs. Isabel 
Knowlton, who sat near Mrs. Cartland. Ninety 
summers have passed over her head, but they have 
touched her very lightly. The soft hair is only 
threaded with silver. The clasp of the hand is as 
firm and unshaken as in the days of her youth; and 



567 

her voice is strong and clear, as was shown in her 
recitation of 'Daniel in the Lion's Den,' a poem 
of twenty-six verses learned at her mother's knee 
when a little girl. She is indeed what she loves 
to call herself, 'a monument of God's loving 
mercy.' As she ceased speaking, Mrs. Cartland 
rose, and repeated very impressively some lines 
written by Madame Guyon while in prison. They 
were called forth by a reference to Madame Guyon 
in the Bible reading." 

If Mrs. Farmer could have selected an hour for 
her last meeting time with childlike worshipers, 
could she have had one that would have left more 
hallowed influences? Perhaps it was a special 
soul-lift for the sufferings which were to take her 
into the close neighborhood of the eternal and fi- 
nally to dismiss her to her everlasting rest. 

And another memory of this last pleasant sum- 
mer was dear to her. By invitation the daughter 
supped with Whittier and his cousins at Greenacre 
on her birthday; and the poet, by chance detect- 
ing the occasion, wrote in her Album the im- 
promptu given at the close of this chapter, which, 
though never designed by him for public eye, is 
greatly treasured by the few and select friends who 
were aware of the day and of this unexpected 
memorial of it. 

Now that the gentle and childlike poet is with 
his Lord, we most tenderly transcribe the permis- 
sion given to Miss Farmer to allow "the rhymes" 



568 

of her birthday to be included in this volume. 
Whittier was in most heartfelt sympathy with 
Miss Farmer in her efforts at Eliot, and made 
several donations of money and of autograph vol- 
umes to its Public Library. 

"Hampton Falls, N.H., Aug. n, 1892. 

" Dear Friend, — Mr. Caldwell inquires whether 
I am willing the Album verses I wrote for thee 
may be used in a memorial volume to thy mother. 
I think the subject much better than the rhymes ; 
but I am willing. I wrote thee a day ago at Eliot. 
" Ever thy friend, 

"John G. Whittier."" 























^^^^? 




XLIV. 



LAST LETTERS. 



] 



LIKE to feel that there are some secrets be- 
tween our souls and God," wrote Mrs. Far- 
mer in the autumn of 1890. Possibly one of the 
secrets which she kept from affectionate hearts was 
the consciousness that she had already reached the 
vestibule of the Eternal. As we recall her latest 
months, we cannot think otherwise. It was no 
surprise to her when the angels came. 

Her first registered words of her final pains are 
dated Oct. 8, 1890. "I am suffering from sci- 
atica. The pain is intolerable. You will be glad 
to know that God is a present help. What should 
I do if I did not love him and trust him fully?" 

To another her penciled words, full of hope 
always : — 

" I have been trying for weeks to find some great 
thought to send you, that will anchor your faith in 
all the days to come. Yesterday God sent it to 
me in a little Faith Magazine, and it is so sweet 
and confiding I send it you. Dear child, if the 
time should come that you are too weak to think or 
pray, you can say with this old saint: 4 Lord Jesus, 
thou knowest me. We are on the same old terms/ 
Was there ever a more precious testimony? " 



5 7o 

The rheumatism was so constant and acute that 
she was held a steadfast prisoner in her eastern 
room above stairs, while her loved companion was 
a prisoner in his wheel-chair below. It was the 
comfort of both that one of the winter guests was the 
Aunt Isabel of ninety years. It was the perpetual 
joy of this shining old saint to carry the messages 
of loving remembrance between the two invalids. 
Time and again did slips of paper flit from the 
eastern windows above to the invalid's chair be- 
low; and even now, scattered about the house, shut 
up in books, are these last words, fragments of 
poems, memories of old hymns, exchanged during 
the suffering weeks. 

Of her last days we must give her own pen in 
the order of the dates. Her last letter to Mrs. 
Pray, the friend of her entire years, is of peculiar 
tenderness : — 

"My dear Charlotte, — I don't understand how it 
is possible that there is more joy in your home 
over the birth of that dear little baby than there is 
in mine. We are so thankful that God has loaned 
another jewel to Mr. and Mrs. Day, who are now 
so much better fitted to polish it for his crown than 
ever before. May they have all the grace and wis- 
dom they need to train this dear child for a life of 
usefulness here, and at last for the higher service 
above with their little lambs now in the heavenly 
Shepherd's care! I send your daughter deep and 
heartfelt joy for the two she has with her as well 
as for those who are in Father's arms. I almost 



57i 

long for wings to fly to you; and, in imagination, I 
walk softly into the chamber where that beautiful 
young mother is lying with her darling baby so 
near her heart, and I see Mr. Day, dear little 
Lottie, and the new grandma, as they look at the 
sleeping beauty with their hearts full of joy and 
thankfulness that another baby should come into 
that home. No person on earth is so associated 
with mine as you are, dear Charlotte; and this 
makes your joy so real to me. I will try to write 
that letter to you all very soon, but I have not 
been well enough yet. I have been confined to my 
chamber since early fall with acute inflammation of 
the sciatic nerves. The suffering has been dread- 
ful, but I trust it is over. Still, I can sing, 4 Just 
as God will.' He has been and is very near me, 
and more precious than ever." 

"Jan. 13, 1891. 

"Nothing can go ill, since our Father orders 
everything for his children. Hold fast his hand, 
dear; and he will lead you safely wherever it is 
best for you to walk." 

" Feb 2. 

"My dear Mrs. Balch, — I find no words to thank 
you for your kindness in writing me about our be- 
loved. My heart gathers new hope and courage 
with the thought, 'She is still with us.' We shall 
soon see that she is coming back to life and useful- 
ness. It has been said that a life given back by 
God can never again be held as one's own. What 
will our dear friend do in the future for God and 



572 

for humanity? She has shown such a willingness 
to lend a hand to friend and stranger that it seems 
as if some new channel will be opened whereby she 
can show to the world that she has received a new 
baptism while standing so near the valley and 
shadow of death. We may never be able to see 
with our earthly eyes the connecting link between 
the prayers that have followed Dr. Packard and the 
nurses who have so tenderly cared for the patient 
sufferer, but the blessings that come into their 
lives may in eternity reveal that the Hearer of 
prayer did not turn a deaf ear to the petitions that 
have been going up to him day and night from so 
many homes. The dear patient mother, waiting 
in her Salem home, is not forgotten; and so com- 
pletely have I put myself in her place that it seems 
sometimes as if it must be my own child on that 
suffering pillow. 

"I am not well enough to write, and pains dis- 
tract my thoughts, so that I find it very hard to ex- 
press what I would be glad to say; but I trust you 
will be able to understand the gratitude of your 
stranger friend. H. T. S. F." 

"March 18. 
"My dear Mrs. Dole, — ■Silence on my part does 
not mean forgetfulness, as your own dear heart will 
tell you. I have but little strength, and writing is 
hard for my head and back; and I have had to do 
a great deal lately, as two of my dearest friends 
have gone home. I know I ought to give them 





^^TT-Z^^ 



573 

joy, but now the loss bears heavily. I think you 
met one of them at Greenacre, Mrs. Wallingford, of 
Dover. Her father was my first minister; and she 
was the last link to bind me to the home of my 
childhood. We were born in the same town, Ber- 
wick; and the family was nearest us. She was 
one of the noblest women I ever knew. She was 
the last of her family." 

To the Rev. Phcebe A. Hanaford her last letter 
was as precious as if it had been intended as a 
parting word: — 

" I could not forget you if I would, and I would 
not forget you if I could. And so I take up my 
pencil to tell you that I love you as of old, and 
that I long to see you. It is beautiful to think 
that our love for each other has not changed. You 
have brought a great deal into my suffering life. I 
want to thank you now and here. God bless you, 
my dear friend, for all you have been to me in the 
sunny past and all you will be in the glad here- 
after. You will not be surprised to hear that the 
Master has called me back into his school to learn 
another lesson. He took me from my family cares 
last fall, and I have been a prisoner of the Lord 
ever since. The suffering has been extreme, but 
God has always sent me more patience than pain. 

"My dear husband is still a living epistle to all 
who see him. He preaches a daily sermon to every 
member of his family. He takes a deep interest 
in all that is going on in the world; and, as far as 



574 

he can, he lends a helping hand to all who need 
it. How much good he has done in his long and 
useful life! 

"With love to you and Miss Miles, I am ever 
lovingly your "Happy Mabelle." 

To the mother of the fallen brave, Captain Rich- 
ard Haskett Derby, she sent a brief word April 
24 : " Not even our dearest can share our varied 
trials, but our Lord can." 

In the beautiful month of May she acknowledged 
once more and for the last time her gift of lilies: — 

"The Lord sent me my gift of lilies of the val- 
ley this year as usual, to show me that baby was in 
his care. They have never failed once in the 
thirty-one years to come to me. There is some- 
thing very comforting and tender in the sacred re- 
membrance." 

The daughter, who watched daily the wishes and 
necessities of the invalid parents and brightened 
hearts and home constantly, went to a distant 
town to speak in behalf of an object of worth 
and necessity at a convention; and because of this 
there was a last letter to her (June 17), and the 
last of all her letters that has reached us: — 

"My dear Child, — Your letter, coming so 
promptly the next morning after you left home, 
gave us the feeling of nearness to you, and that 
you were not really so far away from those to whom 
you are the sunshine of their lives. God bless you, 
dear. It is a comforting thought that he is willing 



575 

to use us in his service in any place or way. Do 
all you can to advance his cause and kingdom." 

Then, with an allusion to a clergyman who had 
expressed a wish that she should give the story of 
Rosemary to some who had been much interested 
in its summer visitors, she adds : — 

"I wish they could know what a glorious work 
that house is doing, watched over and cared for by 
the angels around the Great White Throne. Your 
precious little brother did not live in vain, since 
his mother's loving heart is the foundation stone of 
Rosemary." 

Among her papers was an unfinished penciling 
entitled 

ALL READY. 

All ready to step o'er the threshold 

Into the realms of the blest, 
To walk with the beautiful angels, 

To know the heavenly rest. 

I shall go where the fields will be greener, 

Fresher by far than we know : 
I shall walk on the banks of the river, 

And list to the silver tide's flow ! 

The pen she then laid aside. It had been most 
lovingly used "in his name and for his sake," 
and God was to exchange it for the branch of palm 
and the everlasting song. 



XLV. 

THE EVERLASTING MORNING. 

THIRTY years before Mrs. Farmer's transfigura- 
tion and transition, Aug. 4, 1861, she wrote 
to Professor Farmer of the hour of all hours: — 

" You know, my clear husband, that I have felt 
for years that, when the Messenger comes for me, 
the call will be sudden. I shall have no time to 
gather up the fragments of my life and bind them 
together. Then, what I would have done, it is my 
duty to do in the now. I shall be ready, if I live 
thus, when I hear that little baby voice calling 
Mother. I sometimes fancy how it will sound, and 
what joy it will bring to my heart to hear those 
little lips, that never uttered a word here, calling 
me by name." 

Her pen was prophetic. Friday night, June 26, 
1 89 1, the daughter of her love and blessing left 
her at midnight. The next day Mr. and Mrs. 
Coffin were to sail for Europe, and Miss 
Farmer was to take the earliest train to 
town to carry the family farewells ; and so 
mother and daughter talked with each other until 
the clock struck twelve. The mother seemed in 
the usual comfort of the night, and, in reply to a 



577 

question whether any other offices of love could be 
rendered, replied, tenderly: "2Vo, dear: you have 
done all you can.'''' Unconsciously, the kiss given 
was the kiss of separation. 

The daughter had ordered the carriage to be at 
the door at half-past six in the morning. An hour 
earlier than this a sound in the mother's room in- 
dicated that she, too, with all her feebleness, was 
alert, and ready to send her latest benediction to 
the friends who were to sail that day. 

A little later the daughter went to the door of 
her mother's room. As she entered, upon the pil- 
low was a face baptized with a sweetness that was 
supernatural. The cheek rested upon the hand as 
beautifully as if a child had pillowed its face on 
the dimpled palm. 

It was a strange moment, one that can hardly re- 
peat itself. For a moment the daughter's heart 
was as still as her mother's; and then, with a forti- 
tude born of the divine breath and with an awe akin 
to that we may have at the first look of his face, 
that daughter kissed the lips that for the first time 
gave no response. It was no hour of fear. The 
daughterly love bore the word at once to the 
father's ear and heart. The house was called. 
The doctor came in; and his word was that within 
an hour it had been written: "She is not. God 
has taken her." Were there tears in that wonder- 
ful daybreak? Do you cry if joy-bells ring? Yes, 
sometimes even music makes the eyes like a foun- 
tain. That early household by a silent intuition 



578 

let the heart's joy-bells ring; for the Lord was her 
everlasting light, and theirs, too, and the days of 
her pains were ended. 

Did she leave no dying word? No, but she left 
living ones-, and, as the close of her life, we have 
reserved a gracious epistle, written to one who had 
received more kindnesses from her hand than could 
be counted, and most appropriate to all who are 
grateful that they ever came into the sunshine of 
her presence : — 

" Not a cloud has dimmed the brightness of our 
friendship. How pleasant to think of this, as I see 
the grave yawning at my feet! If you are spared 
to look upon my cold white face, you will have no 
memories to sadden your heart. Remember then 
how much you have done to make my life calm and 
blest. Remember how grateful I was for every 
look of affection, for every tender word, and say, 
'Because she loved much, she shall be forgiven 
much.' My love for you will never die. My 
gratitude you will never know here. How I wish 
I could do something to prove it! If I go home 
before you do, it may be that a part of my mission 
will be to minister to you. They will lay me with 
Baby Clarence. When you are here, go to the spot, 
and cover me with flowers. I think I shall see 
you. One day, when I was very sick and not con- 
scious, I looked up and said, 'When I go home, 
cover me with flowers, and remember that I die 
in peace with all the world, loving everybody.' 
Could I have expressed my feelings more truly if 



579 

I had known what I was saying? My peace is like 
a river. My patience is not yet exhausted. God is 
good to me. I have searched my heart in vain to 
find a murmuring thought. What shall I render?" 
Was it not to her the everlasting morning and 
unto us as well? Yes, answer our spirits. The 
Lord was indeed unto her the everlasting light, and 
God became her glory. 

"MOTHER ROSEMARY." 
The Day After. June 28, 1891. 

In rosetime, when the fragrant earth 

Is most like heaven, she homeward pressed; 

Beloved of all the flowers, she passed 

Through flower-fringed portals to her rest. 

'Tis but a step from our fair world 
Of light and love and flower and song 

Unto the next. And should we mourn, 
We who yet stay? Nay ! grief is wrong. 

Nay ! let us but the more rejoice 

That she hath found the home above, 

Where nothing ever fades or fails, 
Or be it flower or song or love. 

She fell asleep at eventide 

To wake to heaven's deathless dawn, 

Left sunset splendors dearly loved 
For rapture of celestial morn. 

We love to think that one so pure 

And sweet as she hath walked the earth, 

And one who of each tiny flower 

Knew fondly the sweet way and worth ; 

Hath made our humble pathway brave, 
And full of love and shine and cheer; 



580 

To think that her exceeding faith 

Hath cheapened life, and made death dear. 

We love to think, Ah, sweet was she ! 

That her dear, patient, saintly feet 
Have trod these shy by-paths of ours, 

To make them yet more brave and sweet. 

How blest it is to feel that one 
Who oft before us came and went 

Hath gone to bless our holier home, 
To render heaven more redolent; 

That she who loved the children so 

Now bides at Home, God's grateful guest, 

While countless babes she mothered here 
All radiant rise, and call her blessed ! 

We see her gracious presence still, 
Serene amid the blooming fields, 

Clothed with the sweet humility 
That Christly efflorescence yields. 

On this, her first Heaven- Sabbath home, 
To make her rich, full life complete, 

She breaks her alabaster box 
And pours upon her Saviour's feet 

The spikenard of her faith and hope, 
The ointment of devoutest prayer, 

The precious oil of joy and love, 

Than frankincense more fragrant rare. 

" She hath done what she could." 
O Lord, that we of thy dear alms 

Make use as brave, making our lives 
As sweet and solemn sunset psalms. 

Shall we not, too, O thou that lov'st 
Thy creatures, though so weak they be, 

Render, for love's and friendship's sake, 
Our simple thank-offering to thee ? 



5 8i 

No alabaster box have we, 

No costly spikenard may we bring, 
No mountain-moving faith, like hers, — 

Only a full heart's offering. 

Only this bunch of fragrant thoughts, 
Of sweet rosemary, pearled with dew, 

Out of the fields of love, dear Lord, 
We pluck to-day for one so true. 

Like her, we come all reverently, 

And lay our gift at thy dear feet : 
O Lord, to us as unto her 

Make manifest thy Presence sweet. 

Keep us serene and patient, Lord, 

Until life's little race be won ; 
Grant us at last our steadfast eyes 

To lift, and say, " Thy will be done." 

" In His Name " — and hers. 
Dover, N.H. William Hale. 

And with a beautiful quaintness the pen of 
Enoch George Adams of Berwick (the birthplace 
of Mrs. Farmer) carries us outside and beyond 
Bittersweet, where the dear casket lies empty in its 
peaceful repose, and brings us to the portal, and 
pictures the entrance into the eternal, as if by 
very revealing the eye had seen and the ear had 
heard : — 

AT THE GATE. 

(MRS. HANNAH T. S. FARMER.) 
BY ENOCH GEORGE ADAMS. 

" Peter, with the golden key," 
Said the Lord Christ, "go and see 



5 S: 



Who is standing at the Gate : 
Some there are who should not wait. 
'Tis a knock so soft and mild, 
'Tis a woman or a child." 

Then his robe about his waist 
Girded Peter with great haste. 
As he turned, the golden key- 
Rung out glorious symphony. 
Soon the gates began to whirl, 
Each one was a single pearl. 
As they outward fell apart, 
Peter moved with sudden start, 
Viewing suppliant at the place 
Of such beauty and such grace, 
While a nimbus round her hung, 
Though she was not over-young; 
And demeanor the most meek, — 
Blushes glowing on each cheek. 
Soon she humbly asked of him 
Seat in heaven's outmost rim, 

Quick a little child arose, 

From a group was clustering close. 

Said she to angelic crowd, 

In a voice both sweet and loud : 

" Sure has come to Heaven and me 

Founder of the Rose??iary ! 

When I was an earthly child, 

In the city's heart defiled, 

Came she on me unaware, 

Led me from the sinful snare ; 

Brought me to a Cottage sweet, 

Where was happiness complete ; 

Home she founded for distressed, 

To recuperate and rest. 

Heart had she like gold refined, 

Full of love to human-kind. 



583 

She, like Jesus, loved a child ; 
Like him was both meek and mild." 

Then said Jesus from the throne, 
" She is one that I would own : 
Give her crown that brightest glows ! 
Then a mighty song uprose. 
To that humble soul was given 
Grandest crown of saints in heaven. 
And the children round her hied, 
Thick as stars at eventide 
Or the white caps of the sea, — 
Sung of her and Rosemary ! 



XLVI. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

MRS. HANNAH T. S. FARMER, WIFE OF PROF. MOSES G. FARMER 

OF ELIOT, MAINE. 

AT the request of friends who were not present 
at the burial services of the late Mrs. Far- 
mer, we w r ill endeavor to give some impression of 
the sacredness and beauty of the occasion. It was 
not death w r e saw and felt. It was the halo of the 
life immortal shed upon this earthly scene, where 
loved ones gathered to mingle their sympathies 
with hearts so newly touched with more of heavenly 
joy than earthly sorrow 7 . 

The atmosphere of the place w r as holy with the 
presence of unseen guests, w T ho brought with them 
"the peace that passeth all understanding." 

Every arrangement expressed faith in God and 
love for the departed. A truly Christian service. 
Conventional mourning would have been out of 
place, and w r e were grateful to find it unrecognized. 

The precious form, tastefully draped and resting 
in its beautiful casket exquisitely decorated by 
filial hands, and the face still illumined by the 
soul which so recently animated it, made a picture 
not soon to be forgotten, which we loved to look 



585 

upon and linger near. Never have we seen what 
we call death so enveloped, so lost in the spiritual. 

Not a cloud overshadowed the spirits of the dear 
ones who sat in this presence to hear the tribute of 
affection and gratitude eloquently and touchingly 
given by a lifelong friend of the deceased, Rev. 
Augustin Caldwell. 

He told of her gifts and her graces. He told of 
her loyal service for her country in its hour of 
need ; of her broad-mindedness and warm-hearted- 
ness, which were ever alive to the needs and the 
calls of the suffering; of her persistent labors in 
many reforms; of her gifted pen, which never re- 
vealed her name to the public for which she often 
wrote. 

He told of the monument she had reared in 
memory of a son who died in infancy, which was 
to-day giving shelter and food and comfort to many 
a weary mother and restless child, and which would 
in the years to come speak more eloquently than 
words of the richness and fulness of a life conse- 
crated to God and humanity. 

" Rosemary for remembrance." Mother and child 
wreathed in one garland of memory, symbolized by 
the living wreath upon which was inscribed "Our 
Friend" which the inmates of Rosemary placed at 
the head of her casket. At the foot hung a rich 
garland of passion flowers, emblems of her patient, 
sacrificing life, sent by the trustees of Rosemary. 

The King's Daughters, of which order Mrs. 
Farmer was an active member, were recognized by 



586 

the Maltese cross inscribed with the letters 
I. H. N. They also made the home and the last 
resting-place bright with flowers. 

By the side of the casket sat an aunt, whose 
years have numbered ninety-one, whom the deceased 
loved and honored, and to whom she paid her last 
earthly visit. At its foot sat Captain Tom Shay, of 
Newport, R.I., whose faithful service and rare 
Christian character, whose love and loyalty to her 
and hers in years that were past, she highly appre- 
ciated. 

We hesitate as we allude to the home circle, the 
companion of over forty-six years, upon whose face 
we could read God's message of peace to his be- 
loved. With his hand clasped in that of his only 
child, his strength and his solace, he sat as one 
listening to the summons that might call for 
"father" in a dear, familiar voice. He feels no 
loosening of the tie that binds him to his life's 
love : — 

"Uttered, not yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer." 

Of the daughter permit us to say that years ago 
this mother said to us, "When my child was still 
an infant, I wrote for my own satisfaction what I 
wished she should grow to be in person and charac- 
ter; and I have lived to see my wish fulfilled." 

Everything connected with these services was 
informal. Words appropriate and comforting were 
recited feelingly by Miss Elizabeth M. Bartlett. 



587 

"Be thou faithful unto death" was sung impres- 
sively by Mr. William J. Winch of Boston, "He 
shall feed his flock" and " Come unto me " by the 
Misses Dame. 

Rev. D. W. Waldron, the city missionary of 
Boston, who has charge of Rosemary and to whom 
its successful management is largely owing, offered 
a soulful prayer. 

Then stood the daughter with eyes uplifted, and 
said,— 

" Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, — not a tear must o'er her fall, — 
He giveth his beloved sleep! " 

and at her request there was a moment of silent 
waiting upon God before the closing benediction. 
Friends who had come in sadness now left with a 
deeper consciousness of God's power to uplift be- 
yond the reach of human sorrow. 

The casket, borne by loved friends and followed 
only by near relatives and her faithful dog, 
"Barry," was removed to the lawn, and carried 
without ceremony to the spot which she had been 
accustomed to call her "little garden," near the 
summer-house where she often sat, and with prayer 
and song and the holy benediction was deposited in 
the cool of the evening in its last resting-place. 

Beautiful in our thought as the day that dies in 
a glorious sunset was this blending of the earthly 
and the heavenly. We longed to say with the 
poet,— 



588 

" There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call Death." 

As we returned to the home, not desolate, but 
sanctified by this visitation of God, thoughts and 
inspirations crowded upon us while contemplating 
the influence of a life dominated by the spiritual. 
We felt the power and possibilities of a woman's 
life, with its unwisdom and limitations in a 
worldly sense, but with its broad aims, its faithful 
and persistent accomplishments; and we thanked 
God for the rich legacy it has left to its own and 
to the world. 

Amelia C. Thorp. 
West Lebanon, Maine, July n, 1891. 



XLVII. 

IN THE KING'S PALACE. 
A TRIBUTE READ AT THE SERVICE OF BURIAL. 

DAVID says, "They shall enter into the king's 
palace." 
Again his proclamation is, "Enter into his 
gates with thanksgiving." 

Isaiah, the man of gracious pen and mind, ex- 
claims, "They shall enter into peace." 

And John, beloved of God and man, finishes the 
story by saying, "They rest from their labors, and 
their works do follow them." 

How beautifully Phillips Brooks speaks of the 
difference between Saint John's view of the soul's 
transfiguration and ours! John saw what souls go 
to. We see what souls go from. John's opened 
eyes saw the presence of God, the higher standard, 
the larger fellowship with all the race, and the new 
assurance of personal immortality in God. 

As we know this, too, we cease to rake the ashes 
of memory; and there literally comes a burst of 
triumph as the soul we loved goes into such vast 
enlargements and such glorious consummations. 
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord and stand 
immortal before him. 



5QO 

They enter into the king's palace; and the gates 
are thanksgiving, and the very threshold is peace. 
And for this marvelous change, for this which 
we go to, the whole plan and purpose of life has 
been fitting us. 

"God is in every history, and the plan of every 
day is his." And because this is so, because God 
is really preparing us all to become that which is 
the very highest and best possible, the whole of 
life and of death, too T should we be clothed in its 
cheer and its beauty. 

Faber, the papist poet, uttered a truism when 
he said, "Saints on earth are the gladdest of God's 
creatures " ; for they are in the will and development 
of God. And a dear Quaker preacher whom I 
knew, and who went to his Father's house at the 
sunrise of his being, said, "God is my element, 
and out of him I am like a fish out of water." 

The true life and the true death are one, no divi- 
sion ; and each is a part of that divine idea which 
is linking and blending the human and the divine. 
God is the atmosphere both of life and of death. 

Standing as we do now on the threshold of the 
King's palace, with the records of a singular life 
upon one side of us and the broad glimpse of her 
light and her beauty and her glory on the other, it 
is hard to decide where the gaze shall be fixed. To 
some, maybe, there is the thought of the depart- 
ure; but no, I believe as Hawthorne wrote, "that 
there are many things that occur to us in our daily 
life, many unknown crises, that are more important 



59i 

to us than this mysterious circumstance of death, 
which so many deem the most important of all." 

To Mrs. Farmer "the mysterious circumstance 
of death" was by no means a crisis. Greater things 
had come to her, which had wrought changes and 
interests and developings which make her life and 
name as hallowed as heaven. The ceasing of the 
breath was not a change nor a surprise. She only, 
like a child, entered a gate she had reached. 

Emerson said, "The world is all gates, all op- 
portunities, strings of tension waiting to be 
struck." Not Emerson himself had stronger per- 
ception of this than did the heart and the life of 
her whose history we delight to review. To her 
every neighborhood was all gates and all opportuni- 
ties, and she never neglected one. 

A dear child was once puzzled to know how to 
love the Christ whom he had never seen; and in 
his perplexity he went to his mother, and asked, "Is 
Jesus like anybody I know?" Of the dear one 
around whom we gather, we can say that in a thou- 
sand ways she imaged her Lord as he walked to 
and fro in his daily benedictions. "Inasmuch as 
ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have 
done it unto me." 

We need not for one moment take our eyes from 
the wide open gates of the King's palace. We 
need not wipe any tear which flows, even if we can- 
not tell whether it be in grief or gladness. We 
can talk of her life of singular significance while 
she still keeps her hold upon us. We can see what 



592 

she has gone to, while the tenderest love takes up 
the thread of the life she went from. 

To speak of her, however, needs the heart and 
the lips touched with the same marvelous love that 
was in her an incarnation. What she did and what 
she said can never be put upon paper, never be 
uttered by other human lips. She wrought and she 
spoke as a flower breathed its fragrance. She was 
a part of everybody. There seemed to be nobody 
else in the wide world but the sorrowful one who 
confided in her. She gave all her heart, her life, 
her being, to the one who sat bruised and grieved at 
her feet, no matter who it was or when it was. 
Sometimes it was a lad who had come from the 
country to the city to learn a trade, homesick and 
longing for his home and his mother's heart and 
voice. She became mother to him. 

Again it was a poor girl, bruised, forsaken, left 
out in the cold and dank atmosphere of the perish- 
ing. But she would pillow that girl on her bosom, 
and never leave her until she had made every effort 
that could save her, soul and body; and, if she 
could not save her, she loved her still. 

The look of her face, the peculiar soulfulness of 
her tone, opened every avenue of a wrecked heart 
and life; and the distressed ones told themselves 
out to her. She had more hearts and lives and 
sorrows breathed into her ears than can be counted. 

She carried sorrowful secrets, too, of many a dis- 
appointed heart and life. Wives and mothers, 
sometimes, who knew the breakings and the dis- 



593 

tresses of lost loves, leaned upon her bosom, and 
for the hour rested themselves in her sympathy, her 
pity, her comfort. 

She knew the prisoner behind the bars; and, 
when he went out, she remembered the day. She 
waited for his coming. Her door was ajar, and 
her help and her wisdom he could not forget. 

And people came to her who dared not go else- 
where. Victor Hugo expressed what she actually 
lived and practised. "Do not," said he, "inquire 
the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The 
very one who is embarrassed by his name is the one 
who needs the shelter." Mrs. Farmer's instincts 
knew the people she cheered. She never had to 
ask. 

Nor was it the evil only who were blended in 
her life and doings. She had the wonderful stretch 
of heart that took everybody in, the purest of the 
pure, the tenderest, and the most loving. People 
naturally sheltered themselves in her love and 
blessing. 

She gave herself, literally, to the wide, wide 
world. Love always gives. Love knows no self- 
ishness. And then, when came the echo of that 
gun that brought down the dear old flag at Sumter, 
— how can we tell it? Her life, her letters, her 
words, her poems, — ah! yes, the world says she 
brought hundreds in money into the treasury of 
help and pity. It is all true, and the half was 
never told and never can be; but those years of 
hers can never be measured by the ingatherings 



594 

of the treasury. What made scores of soldiers 
love her, and write to her, and bless her? What 
made hearts in the hospitals send her dying mes- 
sages? What made soldiers' mothers give her so 
many benedictions that her letters multiplied by 
hundreds? No, it cannot be written; but God 
knows. 

She took the boys to her heart. She sent them 
scores of motherly messages, and not one could be 
read without leaving that blessing which was a 
God-given benefaction. 

How well I remember her first labor of love for 
her soldiers! It was after the Baltimore Sunday. 
Her heart broke, and poured itself out that day. 
And, when it was wired that the Maine boys would 
pass through Salem, she gathered the neighborhood 
girls and boys; and with all the soulful energy 
of her nature made wreaths and bouquets, and 
wrote cards and messages, and, as the train halted, 
every child bore out the prepared token of actual 
interest and tenderness. She did not think of any 
returning words, but they speedily came. Love 
begets love. And homesick youths sent her son- 
like blessings; and, though then in her strength 
and prime, she became at once a mother to myriads. 

Dear heart! among all the hallowed and glorified 
ones, who will love her more in heaven than her 
soldier boys? They are gathered about her now, 
and are telling her of the comforts her own hands 
wrought for them. 

And it was in these years, too, that the minis- 



595 

tries of pain — yea, of agonies — developed that 
marvelous endurance and holy acceptance which is 
scarcely paralleled. What years! We may not 
speak of them now. How she would put her hand 
upon our lips, did she listen to us, and silence us 
with the holy quiet of heaven! But out of all this 
grew that Paradise to weary mothers and restless 
children, — the Rosemary of her loves, her tears, 
her prayers, her cravings, the Rosemary that will 
tell her story all these summer days, while we in 
our yearning think of her and see her not. How 
her great heart welled with tenderness last summer, 
when a dying woman was there and Rosemary be- 
came heaven to her! She would weep at the mem- 
ory of what was told her by an attendant of this 
fading one. Said the attendant, when the sick one 
was going back to her city tenement to die, " She 
never had a bright spot in her life before; but at 
Rosemary she has seen heaven, and is no more, 
afraid to die." Yes, the poor creature did die, 
with the green fields of Rosemary in her memory. 
Rosemary has paid. God bless Rosemary forever! 

And there was another work which she did, such 
a silent work. It was her use of her pen. From 
girlhood to heaven's threshold she held it. She 
never spoke of it, but she did it just the same. 
She never deemed it of worth, but she wrought 
with the talent just the same. She never made es- 
timates of anything. She always did, irrespective 
of results. 

How many, many times will we look and long 



596 

for the letter, the poem, the message, — the bright- 
ness of her sunshine. It will not come as it used 
to; but it will be in our future in the thousand 
memories, — memories which never die, — and in 
holy and spiritual influences and power, though we 
may not understand. 

I dare not speak of her domestic loves. I dare 
not tell of her idolized father and of the charm of 
the young sister's life, whose deaths, years and 
years agone, wrought such a change in her life. 
Ever after they left her, she seemed to live three 
lives in one. Father's, sister's, and her own life 
seemed to be blended; and she has actually com- 
pleted the work of the three. 

She became in one sense at that early time the 
head of the house. Her mother, widowed and 
desolate, leaned upon her forevermore. The dear 
old mother, — to know her, too, was to love her. 
Oh, if we could penetrate the joy of heaven to-day, 
would not the gladsomeness of their meeting roll 
over us like waves? Unspeakable is the tide; and 
I am not sure if we do not have a sense of its rapt- 
ure. I know she sees his face ; but that does not 
distract the love and delight of the mother and the 
daughter as they gaze into each other's eyes, and 
love now with an eternity of affection. 

The public library which Mrs. Farmer so desired 
to see well founded was a wish of her father's 
heart, and for his sake she gave her interest to it. 

All we have spoken is of her outward labors. 
How beautiful the record, the Daughter of the 



597 

King! But, within all, there is that marvelous 
wealth of domestic love which was poured out on 
her home life, her domestic story. She never 
lifted the veil of her home life. It was her own 
unrevealed. Forty-six years of uninterrupted home 
life and love! "Dear old heart," she wrote of her 
husband only a week ago, — "dear old heart, what 
love we have got out of these years ! " Ah, me ! 
what love indeed! It was love like a cease-less 
river, that made the life all it was, — love that we 
can never tell and never attempt to tell. God does 
not attempt some things. He keeps them as hal- 
lowed as the apple of his eye, and never tells the 
secret. And so we only say it was wife's love, 
mother's love, sister's love; and did she not take 
all the range in? She was every love. 

The latest ride she took was to the home of her 
loved Aunt Isabel, dear saint of ninety-and-one, — a 
ride of tenderest interest. We never dreamed that 
the aged feet would outstrip her in the race. 

And we who are here now, if not of her blood, 
still we, too, are in the tenderest relationship. 
She was unto us all that can ever be said as Friend. 
Not' one of us ever had such another. Not one 
of us can ever have such another. We have told 
all the joys and sorrows of our lives to her. We 
never shrank from any unfolding. Our lips close 
now; for we miss the ear, the only ear but God's. 
Everything is associated with her; and, if we 
are dumb and numb to-day, it is because we have 
not yet become used to the change and the silence, 



59 8 

We understand what the beloved Whittier wrote 
to-day: "I have just heard of your sorrow, which 
overshadows your household. I know what it is 
to lose a mother. Let me in spirit sit with you 
in your circle of mourning." 

We only know that her name is our absorbing 
thought. We know that we loved her, and that 
suddenly we have come to a chasm. And yet the 
void is bridged. 

A year ago a traveler following his guide up the 
Alps suddenly came to an unexpected chasm in the 
path. He thought the upward steps must cease. 
But his guide measured the space, and sprang over; 
and then, throwing himself upon the brink, he 
stretched his strong right arm across, and said, 
"Master, cross on my hand." "Never," said the 
astonished climber. And the guide's noble re- 
sponse was: "Master that hand never fails. Step." 

Yes, our bridge is thrown across. We give our 
whole weight to the strong right hand of our God; 
and, as we step, we can tell now where our thoughts 
dwell. It is on what we go to. It is the palace of 
the King. And, as we gaze on the transfigured 
face to-day, at rest upon its pillow, our only 
wonder is that even the precious body is left us. 
Translation would be no surprise. It is not death. 
It is glorification. It is the change, quick as the 
twinkling of an eye. It seems like Paul's pen, — 
"And there is the spiritual body." And the 
heaven-home and the earth-home are one. It is a 
threshold alone between. 



599 

These beautiful flowers of to-day, the lily of the 
valley in her hands, have always had a wealth of 
love from her. And over the threshold they wither 
not. She walks among them there. I am not sure 
but earth hereafter will be to us only the vestibule 
of the Eternal. And, with the veil rent as it is 
to-day, we may hardly be able to tell upon which 
side we are living. We are literally, she and we, 
forever with the Lord. Amen. 



XLVIII. 



WORDS OF LIFE AND LOVE. 



IT was at break of day that Mrs. Farmer entered 
into the Gate of the City; but so quickly did 
the word go from home to home and from town to 
town that, while it was yet morning, Dr. William 
Hale, of Dover, wrote : — 

"My heart is full. Though aware that human 
sympathy seems almost an intrusion in times of 
sacred sorrow, I have it in my heart to send you a 
word of brotherly cheer. Be assured of my tender 
sympathy. Keep brave and serene, just as our 
dear Mother Rosemary would have her friends al- 
ways be." 

On the next day came another message from the 
same appreciative pen : — 

"I must send this little message, because I can- 
not get dear Mother Rosemary out of my mind and 
heart. I want you to think of her as one not lost, 
but with you still and nearer." 

The Reverend Edward Everett Hale, D.D., most 
kindly remembered the family in this hour of God: 

"My dear Friend, — The newspaper brings us 
the news of your sudden loss. Nothing had pre- 
pared me for it. I mean that I had not in any way 
heard that Mrs. Farmer's condition was thought 



6oi 



more critical. But indeed, believe me, nothing 
prepares us for death. We are not made to believe 
it, or that we can believe it. I lost in the same 
year the brother next me in age and the sister 
equally dear. She had lingered in acute rheumatic 
pain for many years. He was swept out into the 
Gulf of Mexico in an effort to save some ship- 
wrecked men. This was as sudden as could be. 
The other came after long illness. I was affected 
by one announcement exactly as I was by the other. 
That is, I did not believe either, and could not. 
And I know that, when my mother died, I felt a 
hundred years older. Here was the last person left 
to whom I was a boy. We were very near to each 
other. She sympathized in all my hopes and plans. 
So that I have so much right to express my sym- 
pathy with you now. I know your father will be 
brave, but it is half his life which is taken away. 
Pray give my love to him, and be sure you have all 
our sympathy." 

Mrs. Bernard Whitman, of the editorial staff of 
Lend a Hand, said : — 

"I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Farmer's sweetness 
when I saw her in Eliot, and I brought away such a 
pretty story of her that many a time I have told it 
to show what a true womanly woman she was. I 
always thought I should see her again. I always 
meant to, and hear more of the sweet life which 
she put into her words. And now we must all 
wait; but it will come, and the bright anticipation 
of reunion helps us in our journey." 



602 

The Friendly tongue, never so quieting as when 
we are sore at heart, found expression in a letter 
from Mrs. Cartland, whose home was one of the 
shelters of the poet Whittier: — 

"My beloved Frieiid, Sarah J. Farmer, — We 
have just learned through Cousin Greenleaf,* who 
spent last night with us, of the decease of thy dear 
mother. I hasten to express our sorrow and the 
deep sympathy we feel for thee and thy dear father 
and all your family under this sad bereavement. 
We can in a measure at least realize the void which 
her departure leaves in her household and in the 
various charities she so lovingly and faithfully sup- 
ported, and those who were favored with ourselves 
to meet her during our very pleasant days at Green- 
acre will not soon forget her warm welcome and 
saintly presence. Wilt thou not write us, as we 
long to hear from thee? My husband joins me in 
this feeble expression of our love and tender sym- 
pathy; and I am as always most affectionately 
thine, Gertrude W. Cartland." 

The Honorable Charles Carleton Coffin sent the 
testimony of his brotherly love and estimate of her 
life and character: — 

"Words fail me to express my sympathy. I 
have not a tear to shed over her departure so far as 
she is concerned. Heaven is more radiant than it 
was before she went, and earth is poorer so far as 

* John Green'eaf Whittier, — now in the unseen. 



603 

her presence made it beautiful ; but the work re- 
mains. The world is better for her having lived 
here. I shall ever think of her as one of God's 
children and as not dead. The mortal part may 
suffer change, but that is all. 

"Fannie Heywood's little Effie has written the 
enclosed tribute. We called to tell Fannie yester- 
day of the departure. As soon as we left, Effie 
wrote the lines. She is but twelve years old, you 
remember" : — 

THE CALLING. 

In Memory of Hannah Shapleigh Farmer, 

June 29, 1892. 

The time has come for the parting, 

Our dear one is called to rest, 
To be a fair sweet angel, 

Close to her Saviour's breast. 

She has gently climbed the ladder, 

And reached its highest hold, 
And is now in the purest heaven, 

Where shines a light like gold. 

The patient feet were weary, 

But now her toil is done. 
She lives again in heaven, 

A life that is just begun. 

As we think of her who has left us, 

We think of her life so sweet ; 
And now she has gone before us 

To a world where we hope to meet. 

Her faith was pure and holy 
For the One so great above. 



604 

She heard her Saviour calling, 
And went to greet his love. 

Perhaps she was tired of waiting, 

That she took her tender flight : 
Perhaps she was needed above us, 

To be a shining light. 

Our grief is sad and sacred, 

And a sorrow is in our heart. 
It is hard to have her leave us : 

It is hard for us to part. 

But in the evening stillness 

We can almost hear her voice. 
Are we sorry she has left us ? 

No: for 'twas her Saviour's choice. 

And some time, when he is calling, 

We shall no longer roam, 
But go, like our beloved one, 

Up to our Saviour's home. 

To Cousin Moses, with love from his little 

Cousin Effie. 

Mrs. Farmer's long residence with the United 
States Navy very naturally drew forth many letters 
of highest respect from the officers and families 
whose names had been blended with the station at 
Newport. 

Commodore George Dewey, United States Navy, 
whose wife (a daughter of ex- Governor Ichabod 
Goodwin of New Hampshire) passed from earth 
while the Farmers were at the Torpedo Station, 
dated a note of expressive tenderness from Wash- 
ington : — 

" I can and do most fully sympathize with you in 



605 

your terrible affliction. She was so kind and sym- 
pathetic with me at the time of my irreparable loss 
eight years ago that I feel I have lost a true friend. 
The lines found in her needle-book are beautiful, 
and remind me of those I found in Susie's portfolio 
at Newport. Give my love and sympathy to your 
daughter, and believe me most sincerely yours." 

Lieutenant Commander Washburn Maynard, 
United States Navy, from Jamestown, gave a 
glimpse of the quickness with which Mrs. Farmer 
found her way into the lives of people and became 
evermore a memory : — 

" For many months after we had lived side by 
side at the Torpedo Station I never saw Mrs. Far- 
mer; but by a fortunate chance she came into the 
room one day while I was talking with you, and 
the personal acquaintance then begun became one 
which I most highly valued. I think our last 
meeting was in New York, when you were living 
near Central Park. May God help you to bear this 
great sorrow, my dear friend ! " 

The wife of Lieutenant Commander Maynard is 
a daughter of the late Reverend Charles T. Brooks 
of Newport, a man of rare and chaste beauty of 
life, whose pen built him an abiding memorial; and 
may we not include here a little breath of this 
father's verse, written one day in the album of 
Miss Farmer during one of his calls at the Naval 
Station? His allusion to his old Salem home, 
once the home, too, of the Farmers, is very beauti- 
ful to those who remember the loves and longings 
of his poetic heart and life : — 



6o6 

" In thy Gedanke?ibuch, dear friend, 

To write I had a hearty mind. 
I searched it through 'frae end to end,' 

But ne'er a vacant leaf could find 
On which a bird (or bard) might sing 

An unpremeditated lay 
Of Friendship's never withering spring, 

Of Memory's mild and soothing ray. 
So on this page I settle down, 

Here in this pleasant midland spot, 
Where forms of dear old Salem town 

Rise up that ne'er can be forgot. 
O Salem ! for thy peace I pray, 

And for thy happiness, my friend; 
Perennial joy refresh thy way, 

Heaven's peace thy every path attend." 

Newport, Jan, 31, 1878. 

Mrs. Newell, wife of Commander John Stark 
Newell, United States Navy, a grand-nephew of 
the old General Stark of Revolutionary fame, dated 
from the Ebbitt House, Washington, a note of kind- 
ness, always like grateful dew to hearts who know 
the parch of loss: — 

"Allow us to mingle our tears with yours, dear 
friends, and assure you that our hearts and prayers 
are with you in your hour of need. Mr. Keefe's 
kind note came a few hours ago, and we also saw 
the notice in the Herald. How I wish we could be 
with you and do for you! Still, I know you are 
surrounded by friends. When you are able, write, 
dear, please; for we naturally long to hear and to 
know of y r our honored father and yourself." 

General and Mrs. Samuel A. Duncan wrote, one 



607 

from the busy New York City and the other from 
the mountains of New Hampshire : — 

"My dear Friend, — You cannot well comprehend 
what a shock I felt when your brief note came with 
the sad intelligence that your loved one had en- 
tered into rest. Be assured that our warmest sym- 
pathies go out toward you and yours at this supreme 
hour of your life. You have left you, my dear 
friend, as a precious legacy, shedding its benedic- 
tion over all the years to come and hallowing those 
that are gone, the memory of your long association 
with a pure and noble life and the bright hope of a 
blessed and undying reunion in the not distant 
future. Be of good cheer, I pray you. Bear 
bravely up, ready to meet with your old-time faith- 
fulness whatever of duty life may yet have in store 
for you. Mrs. Duncan is in New Hampshire with 
her aged mother. Were she here, she would join 
most fervently in sympathy with you, and also with 
Miss Farmer, who is never forgotten by us." 

" Dear Professor Farmer, — The news of your re- 
cent irreparable loss comes to me here in this re- 
mote New Hampshire village, where I have come 
to minister to my aged and feeble mother. I trust 
you will not think my sympathy intrusive. I had 
never the advantage of a personal acquaintance 
with Mrs. Farmer, yet I knew I had a right to be 
interested in her through my love to you and your 
daughter, and through her many good works, which 



6o8 



illumined her life all the more radiantly because of 
her long invalidism. What could we do without 
the hope of a future reunion? Upheld by this sub- 
lime belief, what can we not endure? Every time I 
look at my dear mother, who is gradually fading 
away before my eyes, my aching heart comes back 
to this comforting support. It is a long time since 
I saw you. Time has laid a white hand on my 
own head, and I dare not hope he has not dealt a 
similar token to you; but, as I recall your twink- 
ling eye and smile, these surely are the same. 
Will you offer my loving sympathy to your daugh- 
ter, whose sense of loss I well appreciate? Earth 
is never quite the same when mother departs. 
This hurried page will assure you of my sympathy; 
and that will atone, I trust, for its irregular and 
hurried appearance. 

"Julia J. Duncan." 

Professor George W. Dean, formerly of the 
United States Coast Survey, gave a perceptive ap- 
preciation of the ended days : — 

"Hers was a missionary life; and no words of 
mine can convey to you and your , dear daughter 
greater consolation than you now have in the re- 
membrance of the many Christian traits of charac- 
ter which adorned her life, and enabled her to ac- 
complish so much of good." 

And Professor Dean's wife added to her husband's 
words : — 

"A beautiful end to a beautiful life. A change 



6og 

from the things temporal to those which are 
eternal. More than ever shall I cherish the little 
volume of 4 Seed Thoughts' which she gave me, 
and with her blessed memory shall I associate the 
lovely lily of the valley." 

Professor B. A. Gould, the distinguished astron- 
omer, for many years at the head of the Observatory 
in the Argentine Republic, sent a hasty word in 
the hour of his leaving for the continent: — 

"My dear old Friend, — The newspapers tell me 
of your bereavement. Accept my sincere sym- 
pathies, and I know how to give them. In 1883 I 
was deprived of my precious wife, and with her of 
my ambition and hopefulness; but I decided what 
my duty was, and met it. In less than an hour I 
leave for Germany and France, going first to an 
Astronomical Convention in Munich, then to the 
Annual Session of the International Committee of 
Weights and Measures, of which I am a member, 
first representing the Argentine Republic and then 
representing the United States. I send you these 
lines of kind remembrance and sympathy as I go." 

Franklin L. Pope, the electrician, spoke from 
personal acquaintance : — 

u Her long life, filled with good works, and un- 
selfishly devoted to the service, 'In His Name,' of 
her fellow-beings, will ever cause her to be remem- 
bered as one whom it is a privilege to have known." 

Dr. J. Baxter Upham, to whose indefatigable 
zeal is due the credit of bringing to Boston the 
great organ, which for so many years in Music 



6io 



Hall was the ornament and delight of music-lovers, 
sent from Young's Hotel, Boston, a message which 
had its root in a soulful experience which makes us 
all in fellowship when sorrow comes : — - 

" My dear old Friend, — It is in sorrow unutter- 
able and with profoundest sympathy that I write 
this. I saw in the evening paper the announce- 
ment of the sudden death of your dear wife. Two 
and a half years ago my precious one left me as 
suddenly as yours. It left me with the light of the 
house put out and life seemingly bereft of all con- 
solation and hope. A little before, I lost a dear 
and lovely daughter. And in a locket I have two 
locks of hair, one blonde, the other brown; and, as 
Longfellow has said, — 

' When I look upon the blonde, 
Pale grows the evening red ; 
And, when I look upon the brown, 
I wish that I were dead.' 

"But no, my dear and good fellow and friend of 
so many years, that is not the way. There are 
those remaining who love us, and for whom we 
must live. I know how to sorrow with you, though 
any poor words that I can give are vain and feeble. 
May God bless and comfort you and yours!" 

Harriet McEwen Kimball, the woman of grace- 
ful pen, whose pages have the breath of the life 
spiritual and eternal, gave that intuitive under- 
standing of Mrs. Farmer which perhaps the eye of 
the poet most quickly perceives : — 



6u 



" I never once had the pleasure of meeting your 
mother; but her reality is so embodied for me in 
merciful deeds that I can say that I know her, and 
that, — having this, the highest knowledge of her, as 
a living presence in the world, — for me, in an earthly 
as well as in an immortal sense, she can never die. 
But, on the other hand, the story of the home made 
desolate, the fireside no longer glowing with the 
warm personal intercourse and joy, I know only too 
deeply. One can only try to bear it patiently till 
the force of the great shock is spent, as it must be 
some day, or we could not bear it. There is noth- 
ing to be said. There is but one voice against 
which the ears of sorrow are not stopped, the 
voice of One who spake as never man spake, — fc I 
am the Resurrection and the Life', — the great cry 
of victory, the meaning of which we can never 
realize till it rends the veil at last, but which we 
can divinely grasp at even now, stunned and 
stricken low as we are." 

Lydia L. A. Very, herself a poetess of distinc- 
tion, as well as sister of Jones Very, whose pen 
always had the singular touch which we call 
genius, wrote : — 

"It was with much sorrow that I learned from 
your letter that your mother had left you. We 
sympathize with you as only they can who have 
long felt the same grief. It was our misfortune 
that we never met your mother and enjoyed her 
society, but we felt acquainted with her from her 
writings and her good works. We are but two; 



6l2 



and it has been lonely, so lonely for years. But I 
try not to dwell upon the parting, but to think of 
that blessed meeting in a better home, where we 
shall all be reunited, never to part. You would 
have felt still sadder to have gone before her, and 
left her, perhaps, alone in this world. Now you 
have cared for her to the end; and she has only 
passed on a little before you, and is waiting for 
you. At my age and even at your age it is only a 
few earthly years that separate us from the loved 
ones gone before. Frances sends her love, and we 
feel deeply your sorrow." 

Arthur W. Dow, a young artist whose name 
already is on the lists of "honorable mention," 
wrote : — 

"I can hardly realize how heavily the chastening 
hand has been laid upon us, and I know not what 
to say. It is not a time for words. Oh that I 
could have seen her! but how many sweet memories 
I have of her! Hers was a blessed life here; and 
now what joy must be hers to meet her Saviour 
and all the loved ones! When she has greeted 
them all, I feel sure that she will seek out my own 
dear mother. We shall meet them there. How 
sweet a comfort in the midst of our tears! Your 
father's letter was beautiful. I pray that he and 
you and Mr. Keefe may have strength from above. 
God bless and comfort you ! " 

Reverend Hugh Elder, once of Crombie Street 
Church, Salem, but now of Farmington, Me., sent 
a pastoral word : — 



613 

"Your note made me glad for your sainted 
mother. She is indeed with her Saviour. Her 
heart has been with him for many years. Now she 
is with him herself. You say she fell asleep 
Saturday morning. Yes, so far as concerns the 
body; but, so far as concerns the soul, she, instead 
of falling asleep, did rather then awake. And, 
oh, what a blessed morning! She has long been 
ripe for heaven, and now she is there. Tell your 
father that long ago he took her to be his own till 
death should come and part them. He has just to 
wait till his own death again unites them, as it 
surely will one day. Meanwhile may the God of 
all consolation be with him, and give him the 
grace which shall be, even in this hour, the 
sufficiency! " 

From Newport, the home dearly cherished, came 
a message from the Reverend G. W. Cutter: — 

" My last sermon to my people was upon the sub- 
ject of the company of the heavenly witnesses, the 
presence and companionship of loved and lost ones 
who still are near with their tender regard and lov- 
ing solicitude. With every new departure from 
this life, that heavenly company becomes more full 
and sacred and beautiful; and, while we remain in 
the old places and pursue the old tasks, these 
angels of peace and joy walk by our side. To me 
it is a most comforting belief, a new incentive to 
be true, a new restraint against wrong-doing. I do 
not feel that I can speak of your mother fitly, but 
they who knew her best found much in her to ad- 



614 

mire and love. I know that your trust in the per- 
fect, tender providence of our heavenly Father is 
so deep and strong that in this hour you will con- 
tinue brave, serene, patient, and faithful, as you 
always have been." 

From the venerable Reverend Thacher Thayer of 
Newport, the pastor as well as the friend of Mrs. 
Farmer, came an expression of sympathetic remem- 
brance : — 

"We can only utter words which, however sin- 
cere, cannot enter within the veil of heart loneli- 
ness. How grateful is the thought that you have 
the living Christ! and your long experience of his 
love assures you of it, and you know that the dear 
wife rejoices in that Saviour's glorious presence." 

From the Reverend and Mrs. John Gibson, of 
West Kennebunk, with a basket of flowers for "the 
grave of the sacred dust of the dear wife, mother, 
and the friend of us, whose blessed spirit is before 
the throne," came also this message: — 

"Last evening, as the sun was going down, we 
read that 'the sweet mother fell asleep in Jesus 
early yesterday morning.' The silent tears ran 
down our cheeks as we read, and looked in each 
other's faces in our quiet room. We prayed for 
you all. Your loss is surely her eternal gain; but 
the true heart, nevertheless, feels holy sorrow. 
We loved, as did you, to honor her. She loved 
Christ, and bore the marks to prove the same. 
Now she reigns with her much-loved Saviour. 
May God in great grace be with you!" 



6. 5 

A letter, which has neither date nor signature, 
and yet doubtless from a familiar friend of the 
household, says : — 

"We have been reading the published notices 
and records of your mother's life and departure. 
They are all good. But, ah! there is something 
lacking, for she was all heart ; and you cannot get 
heart into type. It is easy to say Rosemary and 
.soldier boys; but your mother was more than words. 
She was the life and the love and the wealth — yes, 
the pith — of all that she touched; and now all this 
is transfigured and transferred. We are all in 
tears, and yet in such holy joy; for she sees his 
face. Oh, if it were I, would not I leap and sing 
to be there! Such a life, such a marvelous record, 
and what a reception by the King! 'With glad- 
ness and rejoicing shall they be brought.'" 
{Psalm xlv.) 

Charles Mason, Esq., the husband of Caroline 
A. Mason, addressed the family: — ■ 

"I received the letter announcing so tenderly 
the departure of your dear mother and speaking so 
feelingly and sympathetically of her dearly loved 
friend, my own precious wife. The discharge from 
sendee of such as they, under the circumstances of 
their lives, we may not regard as an evil, but 
rather as a kind and merciful interposition in their 
behalf, as a beneficent providence, by releasing 
their tired spirits from the pains of the flesh and 
rehabilitating them in their native clime. I doubt 
not you keep a vigilant and interested thought over 



6i6 



the Rosemary which your mother labored so de- 
votedly and successfully to establish, and over 
which we may suppose her spirit ever hovers as a 
guardian presence." 

"Cousin Emma," the widow of Chaplain Joseph 
Little and the sister of Alfred Little of pleasant 
memories, touched the heavenly key-note in her 
words to the household : — 

"Sallie Coffin's letter, containing — shall I say 
the sad or the glad — intelligence of dear Hannah's 
departure, was received to-day. Unspeakably glad 
is it to her. It seems to us a very happy release. 
The suddenness of it, although so startling to you, 
must have been a pleasant way for her to go. 
Mother and I have been speaking of the loved ones. 
she has met, — her idolized baby-boy, her mother, 
Alfred, best of all, her Saviour, who was so pre- 
cious to her in her life on earth. I cannot say 
too much about her gain and her happiness." 

Mrs. Derby, frequently mentioned in this volume 
as the mother of the gallant young Captain Derby, 
gave a glimpse of her heart as she wrote: — 

"She was the dearest friend I ever had; and how 
can I realize that I am not to see her in the flesh 
again! Oh, but I am richer in affection for having 
enjoyed her acquaintance for nearly thirty years. 
I often think that in our afflictions those are our 
greatest comforters who do not interfere with our 
grief. But I hear the Voice saying again, 'Blessed 
are the dead who die in the Lord,' and once more 
a mortal has put on immortality." 



6iy 

The four boys of the Reverend C. C. Beaman, of 
Salem, in whom she had a most motherly interest, 
not only for the love she bore them, but for the 
memories of their mother and father, chosen of 
God and precious, each sent written words, which 
certainly would gladden the eyes of her to whose 
memory they were given, could she read them 
to-day. Nathaniel Beaman wrote : — 

" On my way down from Windsor, where I had 
been a few days with Charles, I was pained to read 
in the dailies the sudden death of Mrs. Farmer. 
The Beamans have lost a staunch and true friend, 
one always interested in their affairs, one who re- 
joiced with them in any successes that came to 
them, and sympathized with them in their sorrows. 
It is more than thirty years since I first knew her. 
During all this time she has been an invalid; but 
what a power for good she has been ! What great 
things she was able to organize and establish for 
the benefit of the needy and unfortunate! She will 
be held in grateful remembrance. 

"You will permit me to say, too, that it has 
never been my privilege to observe elsewhere such 
a loving, cheerful, self-denying husband as you 
have been to Mrs. Farmer. She was a kind and 
devoted friend to my mother and father, and her 
friendship was fully appreciated by them. I shall 
always have pleasant memories of her." 

Charles C. Beaman, dating his letter on the same 
day from his office in Wall Street, New York, 
wrote : — 



6i8 



"You will know how sorry I am, as I have read 
that your good wife has passed away. Well can I 
remember years ago when she was so sick, and 
mother would go to her bedside. You have been 
happy in that she has been with you so long; and 
she has been happy, too, in sharing all that has 
made you happy, and also in sharing all that has 
made you sad. How much she has added to your 
life! and how little she has brought to you of sor- 
row, even in her own sufferings! We, 'the Bea- 
man Boys,' will always think of her with great 
pleasure; and, whenever we think of the mother and 
the father we have loved, we cannot but also think 
of Mrs. Farmer. Together they were in many 
joys, and they must be together in their eternal 
joys also." 

William S. Beaman, from his office on Nassau 
Street, wrote : — 

" I learned from Charles last evening of your re- 
cent great loss of the wife with whom you have 
lived so many years in such a happy home. No 
one but the husband and the daughter can appreci- 
ate the loss. I know you will believe us when we 
four Beaman brothers say we, too, have sustained a 
great loss in the death of one who was to us and to 
our mother and father one of the dearest and truest 
and oldest of friends. My memory goes back to 
1857, when Mr. Jelly took our family in his cab 
from Salem depot to the house in Bridge Street. 
There we first met your good wife and you and 
Sarah. What changes since then! But the friend- 



619 

ship formed in those years can never change. I 
would like to grasp you by the hand, and assure 
you and Sarah of our heartfelt sympathy." 

From Washington, D.C., came the memories of 
George H. Beaman: — 

4fc Death to her is but stepping into a room of en- 
larged opportunities. She has done what she 
could in this world to make many a soul better and 
happier, and probably this work evolved powers for 
the heavenly life she has entered upon. My father 
said in his last illness, 'Death is mysterious.' So 
it must ever be, until we are ushered into the 
higher life. We may seek to unravel the mystery, 
but no doubt it is better to grapple with the prob- 
lems of this world first. My wife and I remember 
with pleasure the greeting we had from Mrs. Far- 
mer when we met her under the tent at the Fete in 
Eliot. We had been thinking we should see her 
again if we went to Greenacre-on-the-Piscataqua 
this summer." 

Mrs. Estelle E. Foster, of Lowell, who had 
loved Mrs. Farmer as a mother, after her own dear- 
est and best of mothers had been laid away in 
surest rest, wrote from a true heart : — 

"I cannot yet realize all that your sudden mes- 
sage brought us to-day, that I can never see your 
dear mother's sweet face again. I force the 
thought from me. I cannot bear it. I loved your 
dear mother, Sara; and I know how much. To-day 
I have lived over again all the tender recollections, 
the dear loving thoughts given me in my younger 



620 



life, — thoughts which still go with me. Your 
mother will live always in the hearts of her friends. 
I am selfish to dwell upon my own loss; but words 
are so empty, sister dear, to hearts that are break- 
ing. If I could only do something for you and your 
dear father in your great affliction, I would be con- 
tent. I love you both very tenderly. Amy will 
be with you: and I, too, shall be with you both 
in spirit and loving thought.'' 

A letter from E. A. Marsh, of Waltham, gives 
a glimpse of the manner in which Mrs. Farmer im- 
pressed entire strangers : — 

"The few minutes' interview with Mrs. Farmer 
on the day of the Library Fete, when she gave me 
the little leaflet of the King's Daughters, 'Send 
me,' has been to me a delightful memory. In 
those few minutes she revealed to me the secret 
— no, not the secret, but the mspiration — of a life 
of sunshine and joy, her delight in doing good for 
Jesus' sake. Xone knew how much she did as 
Avell as you, and such good as will continue to 
bless the world. But now she has gone, and you 
can be glad for her that her eyes see the King in 
his beauty." 

The Reverend Josiah B. Clark, the clergyman 
who performed the marriage ceremony forty-six 
years ago, wrote : — 

" I have just learned from the Vermont CJirojiicle 
the death of your companion, so dear to yourself 
and to me as well ; and I must write you a few 
lines, not so much to comfort you. since you have 



621 

sources of comfort so much above what I can fur- 
nish as to render such an endeavor useless, but to 
express my tender sympathy with and for you in 
this bereavement. In her departure you have the 
daily exhibition of a true Christian life, as well as 
the sympathies of a most loving heart. She may 
in her inward consciousness have felt her spirit to 
be ruffled with irritated passion, but I never saw 
any outward signs of it. So far as I could see by 
any outward expression, everything she spoke or 
did was prompted by love. And who can tell the 
worth of such an example? Who can appreciate 
the happy influence of such a constant outflow of 
such a sympathetic nature in one's daily life? But 
I am writing what is unnecessary, for you know by 
experience of many years what a blessed current of 
love flowed from her full heart. Shall we say that 
that flow has ceased, — ceased to flow? But the 
fountain it has filled remains, in which you may 
bathe through life. Example lives. 

"Then there is this to comfort: she lives in a 
higher life; and we must wait only a few days to 
enter the same blissful abode, which — may we not 
be permitted to think? — she will be permitted to 
iit up for you and others in the heavens? 

"And, above all, she rests in the bosom of him 
who has loved us and given himself for us. We 
will wait then a little while till we hear the voice, 
'Come up higher.' I know you will feel deeply 
afflicted, and the more so because of the nature of 
the treasure taken away for the time being; but 



622 



Jesus lives, and will send the Comforter. He can 
make up — yes, more than make up — for your pres- 
ent loss. Then your daughter will help fill up the 
void. Do you say, 'She needs comforting herself ' ? 
I know it, but she will open a fountain for her own 
soul's comfort by filling as far as she can the place 
of the dearest of mothers for her own dearest of 
fathers; but I must close. I should like to visit; 
but I hesitate to go much from home, as I know 
not what a day may bring forth." 

From Dover, the earliest married home, came a 
remembrance from the Garlands, one of the always 
remembered families of that pleasant city: — 

"Dr. William Hale communicated to us the in- 
telligence of your beloved wife. We all sympa- 
thize with you strongly in this almost overwhelm- 
ing event. I say ''almost overwhelming,' for God 
does sustain his children under the most afflictive 
dispensations. The apostle Paul wrote that once 
under a very great trial the Lord said to him, 'My 
grace is sufficient for thee.' And in this hour may 
you, too, hear the very same! As I write these 
words and think of the suddenness of the event, I 
am reminded of the oft-expression of Rowland 
Hill, — 'Sudden death, sudden glory.' As you 
think of the suddenness of the departure, may you 
also be cheered by the suddenness of her glory! " 

From the scores of letters which were received, 
and from which many and many more kindly things 
might be gathered, we close these gleanings with 
one from a gentleman of large business and a con- 



623 

constantly employed life. Not only is there the 
sympathetic chord, but also a glimpse of the 
views a man may take of divine things who has 
his own independent way of interpreting truth and 
life: — 

"Some one has kindly furnished me with a copy 
of the Salem Gazette of Tuesday morning, 28th 
inst., in which I notice, under the head of 'In 
Memoriam, ' that you are at this time in great sor- 
row and full of tender memories of one who plainly 
was your life and your light, as far as this little 
world is concerned. We say 'this little world,' 
because, as we are talking, the mind in stretching 
out after the departed finds itself in a condition of 
things so grand, so broad and sweet and congenial, 
that we are absolutely chilled and cramped as we 
suddenly find ourselves where we are. 

"I am not much of a theologian; but I cannot 
divest myself of the feeling that the grand and 
elevated taken, so far as the senses are concerned, 
away from those they love are given some volition, 
and do not hasten to form new relations amid new 
associations, but naturally and fondly linger about 
those and places which have been dear and con- 
genial to them in life. 

"In view of all this, then, dear friend, cannot 
you put out your spiritual hand, and again feel at 
least a faint but still perceptible pressure of that 
other hand like which there is no other for you? I 
believe it, and believe there is nothing inconsistent 



624 

in this view with what has been revealed to us with 
reference to the great and good Father's policy 
toward his children. 

" You and your dear daughter must now draw a 
little nearer together, if possible, and, among other 
comforting things, think of the wife and mother 
and the little son, who passed into the higher life 
so long ago, as being now united, which makes, as 
I understand, two pairs, one in the lower and the 
other in the higher life. You cannot yet go to 
them; but they can visit you, and in my opinion 
are with you just as fully as they can be anywhere 
at the present time, so that the family is not really 
disunited or torn asunder, but the great process of 
elevation and sublimation has only commenced 
more vigorously, and, by the assistance of a little 
faith, to the increased happiness and peacefulness 
of all concerned. 

" I have never had much conversation with you, 
my dear sir, on matters of theoretical religion. I 
really am an old-fashioned Calvinist, but am very 
much afraid that Calvin would think me too broad 
and too confident of God's overmastering love for 
all his creatures. Never mind, if I did not feel 
that the great and tender Father of us all had 
called your dear wife away from this world for the 
happiness of you both, Calvin would have occasion 
to criticise me even more than he has now, I am 
afraid. 

"I believe God will now bless you and comfort 
you and console you, and steady your heart and your 



62 s 



mind, and keep you truly strong, until again you 
and the dear departed will be one. 

"Fully appreciating the poverty of my attempt 
to say a single word for your comfort, believe me, 
"Very truly and sympathetically yours, 

"Chas. F. Washburn." 



LXIX. 



SHE YET SPEAKETH, 



THE story is told. The memories of Mrs. Far- 
mer have been gathered into the garner of 
grateful love. That nothing may be lost, we con- 
clude this volume with excerpts of her letters 
which have not been included in previous pages, 
knowing that, brief though they are, they will be as 
precious co us as the dust of the diamond : — 

"God's bosom is a safe place for weary heads." 

"Do not be discouraged, for we shall have as 
many of the twelve legions of angels as we need." 

"Every act of life is a sermon, which results in 
the help or the hindrance of precious souls." 

"Some do more by dying than by living." 

"No place can be called Home unless love binds 
its inmates." 

"Phillips Brooks gave this thought in his last 
Sunday sermon, which Sarah sent to me, and 
which I now pass along to you: l We should never 
seek for happiness here, only for goodness; and 
then peace will come to us.' " 

"God never sends a trial that we shall not feel." 



627 

Silence is a good way to prevent an argument; 
but, when I note a certain stillness, I feel like say- 
ing, 'Free your mind, brother.' " 

"If all the world's men and women were good 
and true, we should have a heaven upon earth." 

"If one must preach, let his text be Christ; and 
the worI"d will be better for his effort." 

. "'Christlike' is my desire; and, if this prayer is 
heard, I will not complain of the how." 

"Did you ever wish you could live one week 
without a trial ? I am afraid we should wish to go 
to heaven when the week was done." 

"Solomon said, 'Hope deferred maketh the heart 
sick.' If he had known my experience, he would 
have added, 'and the body also.' " 

"The furnace flames purify, if the heart does 
not shrink from the scorching." 

"I dare not look at the past, and I have not 
strength to look at the future. I am poised in the 
present." 

"Oh, the peace that comes from living outside 
of self!" 

"How intensely my heart loves! With what 
grasp it clings to the object of its affections. 
Such love cannot be of earth. By this I know that 
I shall live forever." 

"The Master-workman regulates the heat, and 
watches the refining process." 



628 



" Everybody means to be good to me, but some 
have queer ways of showing it." 

"I should despise myself if I had not given all 
my strength to God and to my country in the hour 
of her great need." 

"I follow people by prayer in paths my feet can 
never walk." 

"Mrs. Dix, the woman who always brings the 
sunshine with her, and does not take it when she 
leaves." 

"It is blessed to help people to step outside of 
themselves, and to make them know that somebody 
else has lived a strong, true, self-forgetful life." 

" I love the saints of God with as pure a love as 
I shall ever know Svhen I am clothed upon.' And 
this is the measure and evidence of my love to 
God." 

" I praise God more for my trials than I ever can 
for what we term his loving kindness." 

"There is no case that requires such peculiar 
instruction and care as a soul stirred by God's 
grace." 

"If God does not absolutely need the service of 
any of us, he verily sees fit to use heads, hearts, 
and hands of his little ones." 

"No place can be dark where Jesus shines." 

"When we are instantly submissive to God's 
will, the greatest thing of life is gained." 



629 

u To do or to suffer God's will is not our care, 
but to resign ourselves with unshaken confidence, 
knowing that, when his likeness is awaked in us, 
we shall be satisfied." 

"We cannot always think alike, but I never love 
a person the less if he differs from me. We are to 
be judged by God only. Of how little consequence 
are our own comparisons ! " 

"Some hearts we rest in with the full assurance 
that they will never change in love or life." 

"The first great lessons of life we seldom learn 
by heart. We only hear them read. After a 
while we discover that more is needed than the 
outward ear." 

"I am like a child who asks the whys and where- 
fores. But God answers by a merciful silence. 
Yet my nature is to see some things done" 

"Martyrs do not all die at stakes." 



L. 
LIFE ; NOT DEATH* 

BY MRS. C. A. WOODBURY. 

She is not tired now. The wean* hands 

Which toiled so many years for others' good 

Are folded now upon the silent breast ; 

The feet so swift to run on deeds of love 

Shall rest forevermore : and the voice 

Whose music brought such gladness to our hearts 

Is hushed forever. Yet we would not weep. 

This is the casket here. The priceless gem. 

The immortal soul, has now put on the 

Incorruptible. The wasted hands are 

Holding out the victor's palm: the thin, white 

Face is radiant within the sunshine 

Of her Saviour's smile ; and the brow so marked 

With care and pain and suffering is crowned 

With matchless diadem. The voice, though hushed 

To earth ears, rises now in rapturous strains. 

Singing the joyous hallelujahs to 

The Lamb once slain. 

We would not mourn for her. 
Dear ones, long severed, gather round her there: 
And words of loving welcome reach her ears. 
While over all the gracious plaudit sounds, 
•• Servant of God. ' Well done.' " 

She is not dead. 

♦Lines received by Mrs. Farmer about two weeks before ber transition, and 
recited by Miss Bartiett at tbe burial service. 



631 



The body only turns unto its own. 

She has but entered on eternal life. 

She is not dead. Her spirit clothed upon 

With immortality reigns with the saints 

Around the great white throne. She is not dead; 

But, clad in garments of perennial youth, 

She lives within the paradise of God. 

So let your hearts be comforted ; and, as 

You gaze on the transfigured throng, of which 

She now is one, think not of your great loss, 

But of her blessedness. And raise your hearts 

In grateful prayer to God that he has set 

His mark on you, and made you sacred ■ 

With his touch. And thank him, too, that he has 

Crowned her years of faithful, loving service 

In his name by constant presence at his 

Side, that from death's sleep she has awakened 

In his likeness, and is satisfied. 



. HHV; 




